


I don't want to go

by ChocoNut



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: After bear pit, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Diverges after 3x7, Drunk Brienne, Drunk jaime, Eventually resolved, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, confession of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2020-09-25 08:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20373730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: After the bearpit incident, the group spends the night in an inn. Every one gets drunk and Jaime goes to her room to talk. What happens, eventually, is a bit more than just a conversation.**Now Complete**





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another of my 3 a.m ideas which I just had to put down, and my sudden obsession for older seasons AU. Now that it's done, I can go back to working on the next update for "A twist of fate" in peace.
> 
> I've deliberately left the end open. It can go either way after this. Let me know if you liked it.
> 
> EDIT : Now that I’ve decided to continue with this, it will have a proper resolution to JB.  
Note : While Jaime and Brienne will have a happy ending, I don't plan to address other plot points in the show during this time. So there won't be an accurate fitment of this love story in the larger scheme of things. This will end when JB get together.

_ Why did he come back for me? _

In a frantic attempt to bury away the biggest question that had haunted her right from the moment they’d been pulled out of the pit, she resorted to finding a remedy for her unsettled state in alcohol, readily agreeing, when invited, to join the men for a drink. She frowned, her ability to think gradually diminishing as she took one sip after another, the ale providing just a minute bit of comfort to her troubled conscious. Ignoring the raucous laughter and the bawdy jokes surrounding them, she focussed on her mug, whilst unable to overlook his keen eyes that had been incessantly studying her like a book.

“I must retire for the night,” she announced, uncomfortable with the attention he showered her with.

“Stay,” he insisted, following suit when she got up, “for this is our last night together,” he pointed out the painfully obvious truth. Tomorrow he’d be home, back in the arms of his sister, and she’d be on her way out, fulfilling her oath, her destiny and her purpose in life. Whilst that was what she’d been waiting for all these months, suddenly, somehow, a corner of her craved for this night to never end, for them to never leave this inn.

“I’m tired,” she lied, carefully avoiding his eye. And then, without waiting for an answer, she fled from there, rushing towards the comforting confines of her room. Her drunken brain, though running at a sluggish pace, didn’t seem to want to let go of thoughts of him. Even after she’d locked herself inside and slumped into bed, hoping for sleep to rescue her, to provide her some much needed respite from her raging mind which refused to show her mercy, filling her head with him, and _ only _ him.

She didn’t know what to make of his sudden change in demeanour towards her, nor could she fathom why he’d foolishly jumped into the jaws of death. After hours of deliberation, she’d concluded that it was his impulsive brain confounded into thinking he could take on the bear with neither sword nor hand to defend himself. Ask him, she did, but all she was rewarded with in response, was an intense gaze, a look that could’ve meant anything. Compassion, perhaps, it could’ve been, or maybe an awakening of the true knight within him, the instinct to protect the innocent, a realisation of his honour and nobility, that had, until now, lain in a dormant slumber.

She couldn’t understand, either, when he’d insisted they stay the night at an inn, compelling Qyburn, despite her objections, to take a look at her wounds and administer necessary care. She was at a loss for plausible reasons when he’d demanded of their escorts that she be provided with proper clothes. All of this coming from anyone else would’ve been normal, but the man who’d loathed and insulted her all along to undergo such a drastic change of heart was difficult to digest. The insults too, had died down, as had his sarcasm and dry humour. 

But why?

_And what the hell is wrong with me? Why do I feel differently about him? Why do I suddenly care about what he thinks of me? _

The man she’d despised, the man she would have, if not for her vow to Lady Catelyn, cut into pieces for the taunts he had so liberally showered her with, had, over the span of a day or two, become dearer to her than Renly. So much, that she had now begun to care for him, hoping he’d find his future again and become the knight he’d always aspired to be.

“Wench!”

His voice, followed by a loud knock on the door cut through whatever was left of her consciousness, and she leaped out of bed to open the door, wondering what could’ve brought him in search her of this late in the night.

“Why did you leave so abruptly?” he asked as he leaned against the entrance, his slurred words and drunken eyes telling her that he wasn’t too pleased with her departure. Before she could reply, he went on, “I hope I haven’t said anything to offend you, my lady,” he mouthed, sounding mildly guilty.

Stunned beyond measure, she stared at him, unable to come to terms with this unexpected change in the direction of the winds. The man who had minced no words all these days to mouth every taunt in the books to belittle her was now at her doorstep, trying to justify himself for nothing at all. “It’s not anything you’ve said or done,” she said, her cheeks burning under his gaze. “It’s just that--” she stopped, unable to say another word. 

_ I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I wanted to find refuge in my solitude, hoping that a few moments away from your presence would bring some clarity to my clouded mind. _

“Can I come in?” he requested, and before she could consent or make way for him, he sauntered past her. “I came here to--” he began, but his enthusiasm soon died down, and he halted to take a deep breath, perhaps, forgetting the reason he’d come after her. Shutting the door, she followed him indoors, waiting for him to explain his presence, the pregnant pause too awkward for her to bear.

“Yes?” she prompted helpfully.

His gait mildly unsteady, he approached her. “I came to talk to you,” he murmured, taking yet another step in her direction. So close he was now, that she could smell the ale in his breath. More than that, she could make out the distinct scent of him, and the effect it had on her was alarmingly distracting. All these days he’d been filthy and disgusting, but after a bath and some clean clothes, he was, she had to admit, quite pleasing on the eye. She took him in, his brilliant eyes, cheekbones that had the power to saw through stone, notwithstanding the fact that their real charm was now hidden beneath an unkempt beard. Untidy though it was, on second thoughts, she decided that his beard wasn’t bad either. Gulping down a sigh, she let her gaze wander below his face, absorbing his strong shoulders, the hard chest and the well-defined arms the man boasted of. Stripped of the many layers and rags he’d worn earlier, he now donned a fresh pair of trousers and a simple shirt, leaving parts of his upper chest and neck open, the enticing patches of bare skin reminding her of the night she’d held him in the bath, when he’d come to her naked in both body and soul. 

“My lady,” came his rasped whisper, and she glanced away, flustered, pushing away the terrifying realization that, despite him being reduced to a mere shadow of his renowned good looks, the power the proximity of his body had on her was unprecedented.

_ Go away, and leave me alone, _she meant to tell him, to keep away from him, but her eyes were back on him, and what left her lips instead, was a weak, “Yes, Ser Jaime?”

His lips parted as she resorted to discreetly admiring him again, and he flicked his tongue over them, the seemingly innocent mannerism leaving her panting inside, a dull ache beginning to take shape in the pit of her stomach, an indication of something far more than merely respect and regard for him. “I came back for you because--” Another deep sigh replaced the words he’d planned in his mind as he plunged into silence.

Like a woman bewitched, her eyes never left his, trying to read in them what he was reluctant to say, hoping she could coax some answers out of him. “Because?” She had to ask, to find out what truly lay within the depths of the heart that would allow entry to none but Cersei.

“Your life is of paramount importance to me, Brienne,” he said with utmost sincerity, the emerald eyes and his soft enchanting voice melting her heart. “I couldn’t bear to let you die. I couldn’t just--not return to you.” 

“Why?”

“Because I care about you,” he admitted, looking as flustered as she was, “and I--”

_ I--what? _ She desperately pondered, aching to hear the end of that sentence, a multitude of doubts simultaneously creeping into her mind. _ Is this just his drunken brain spewing out nothing but an illogical stream of words? Or does he really-- _

Her thoughts were left abandoned when he touched her shoulder like none had ever touched her before. Another step he took, and she retreated, only to find herself trapped between him and the wall with no means for escape, nor a way out.

“Brienne--” It was a gasp, a sign of desperation, a needy request.

A hoarse, “Ser Jaime,” was all she could manage in response, heat pooling between her legs, her want for the man leaving her ashamed and helpless. 

What began as an innocent touch turned into a frantic squeeze, his fingers digging hard into her collarbone, whilst his eyes pierced her soul with the most impassioned gaze she’d ever found in them. Without warning, he slid his hand along her neck to meet her cheek, and his lips were on hers, the fire in them startling her while simultaneously evoking a fresh wave of desire within her. He pushed her to the wall, pinning her into position with his body, and she wanted to resist, to point out to him that this was wrong. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but when her lips parted, he mistook it to be a consent to go further. In went his tongue, invading her mouth, and out went all her words of objection, driven away from her mind and into thin air, never to be spoken, never to see the light of the day, her resolve crumbling away pathetically like an old piece of parchment. He kissed her deeply, aggression pouring out of him, and she found herself responding in a way she’d never imagined herself to, gasping and sighing and moaning into his mouth, delight and desire now ruling over confusion and frustration. Her palms crept up his chest, her fingers pausing every inch or so to explore the hard muscles in their path before coming to rest on his neck. Aroused by her touch, the lion in him was forced awake, and with a lusty growl, he slid his stump around her waist and onto her back, whilst dragging down his only hand along her neck.

“Oh, my,” she sighed heavily when he palmed her breast, clinging to him helplessly, the humble piece of garment standing guard between his hand and her chest doing nothing to mitigate the rapidly spreading flames he’d ignited in her. His tongue ruthlessly battling hers, he fought for dominance, and she gave in, sinking deeper into him every second, his kiss unlike anything she’d dreamed of before, even in her wildest and wettest fantasies. His hand travelling to places no man she'd imagined ever would, he frantically tried to undo the top of her shirt, finding success, at last, after a few seconds of angry frustration. “Gods!” she lustily interjected when his fingertips scorched her bare skin, squeezing her breast and thumbing her nipple, driving her into a state of madness she was worried she might never recover from. His erection, rock hard and desperate, teased her thigh before grinding into her groin, craving for a release tonight, and she shuddered under the impact of a shocking tremor of pleasure that shook her when she pictured what it might be like to have him inside her. He continued to unlace her shirt, he continued to touch her, he continued to kiss her, and all she could do was give in to her hunger and her burning need for him.

“Brienne.” He let go of her to breathe, his voice thick with lust when he said her name, only to crush her lips with his a second later before she could realize it, knocking her breath away and blowing her apart. 

They went on kissing, hands furiously seeking bare skin, his on hers and hers on his, bodies pushing and slamming against each other repeatedly, and they would have gone further, tearing each other’s clothes off, succumbing to their passion, but for the knock on the door which led them to jump apart.

Straightening her clothes and patting her hair into place, she ambled towards the door, her knees shaking as an effect of what had just transpired between them. “M’lady,” said the lad who had come seeking her appointment, “the maester who travelled with you wishes me to ask you if you need anything for the night.”

“Nothing,” she said, hoping the boy wouldn’t take note of the company she had. “Tell him that I need no assistance nor medication.”

Her heart missing a beat, she shut the door again, and when she turned to face the room, he had his back to her. “Ser Jaime,” she tentatively began, too shy and overwhelmed with nerves to face him after the limits to which they had gone.

“I must leave,” he said, unnaturally sober when he turned to her. 

She nodded, his words filling her with anguish, her heart heavy that he had, after all, perceived this to be no more than a drunken mistake.

“Good night, Lady Brienne,” he mumbled, and then he was gone.

Her heart still pounding, she sank into the bed, silently lamenting her fate. _ He’d never want you, _pointed out her brain when it had begun functioning. He’d merely succumbed to the calling of his loins, while she had naively thought it to be a reciprocation of her feelings for him.

_ My feelings for him _. 

She prodded the bedspread, pressing her lips together whilst preventing her eyes from flooding with unwanted tears. 

_ I’ve fallen in love with him. _

The harsh truth hit her hard, sweeping her off her feet like leaves in a storm.

_ If only we weren’t enemies. If only he didn’t have Cersei to go back to. If only he loved me in return… _  
  
Despair evicted every other emotion inside her, seeping through every pore, filling every bit of her when she realized that they had to leave this inn by morrow. They had to go, and she'd never see him again after that.  
  
_I don’t want to go._

*****

It took him a while to calm his nerves. A bit of frantic pacing across his room interspersed with spells of sitting and blankly staring at his surroundings did the trick, and within moments his raging heart was back to normal, and his brain in a state where it could function again, albeit its capacity at its bare minimum thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol he’d consumed.

Whilst he would have gladly sacrificed his other hand to spend the night with her, it just didn’t feel like the right thing to do. She was a highborn lady, and a maiden, that too, and any news that leaked of him spending the night with her would be disastrous for her honour and her reputation. His bloody honour was beyond repair, but she still had a name, a reputation to protect, and in no damn way, could he let that bite the dust. 

As minutes slipped past him, he was beginning to be increasingly convinced that their inebriated state contributed to this lapse more than anything else, for why else would a principled woman like her let an incestuous oathbreaker like him touch her? He was sure she’d regret it tomorrow morning, for he wasn’t the type of man she approved of. In every possible manner, he was a misfit for her, and she deserved better than him.

_ I made a mistake, _ he forced his mind to accept. _ I feel nothing for her, _he kept repeating to himself.

_ Is that why you jumped in after her, _his brain countered, upsetting his carefully built up explanation to convince himself that Cersei was his love.

_ Ask yourself, and be honest when you do so, _ prodded an inner voice when he began pacing the room again. _ Does this wench mean nothing to you? _

As he upped his pace, hoping to tire himself to sleep, the answer came to him, loud and clear.

_ I’ve fallen in love with her. _

The bluntness of this realization left him reeling and clutching the wall for support.

_ If only I didn’t have Cersei to go back to. If only Brienne wasn’t sworn to the Starks. If only she loved me in return… _

A dull ache flooded his chest when he was hit by the painful awareness of what he truly wanted, when it dawned on him that merely hours after they left tomorrow, he wouldn't see her again. He had to go back to his sister.

_ I don’t want to go. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be or not to be... We delve deeper into Jaime's mind and his inability to confess his feelings to her, and as the journey goes on, he stumbles into unexpected circumstances.

Jaime opened his eyes, a new dawn and the brilliance of the sunshine pouring through his window welcoming him to the fresh optimism of yet another day. The weight on his chest, though, hadn’t reduced even a bit, everything that had happened last night coming back to him in a flash of vivid visions. 

The searing passion he’d infused in the kiss they’d shared refused to let go of him, as did the feeling of her lips on his, the sweet, yet abrasive contact still fresh in his senses, never to be forgotten, never to be sought in the lips of another. The warmth of her skin continued to linger on his, reminding him of the glorious few seconds his fingers had traveled all over her, the desire that had consumed his mind, body and soul threatening to rapidly turn into an obsession, one that had him dangerously close to finding comfort and affection in someone other than Cersei. Not to mention the painful moment when he’d abruptly broken apart, his whole being begging for closure, his body and his heart pleading with him to drop all restraints and become hers for then and forever.

_ I’ve fallen in love with her… _

He sat up rubbing his eyes, exhaling deeply as he let the realization sink into his sober self. So it wasn’t his drunken brain that had misled him last night. Every particle of his conscious mind screamed the same words in his head even now.

_I love her… _

But there was nothing he could do about his feelings for her. Not unless she too--_ no, that can’t be possible _, he thought, shaking himself back to the real world where there was no way a woman like her would ever fall for--

_ But what if-- _prodded a tiny inner voice that usually served as his motivation during difficult times.

Looking back over the last couple of days, he recalled how the wench had mellowed down considerably, resorting to words and gestures that were certainly more ladylike than usual, uncharacteristic of the tough warrior he’d been accustomed to. More than once, he’d stolen glances at her, and more than once, he’d caught her looking at him, every single time, the moment ending with Brienne averting her eyes, pretending he didn’t exist.

_ I have Cersei to return to, _he crushed the hopes of his optimistic self with a heavy heart, knowing his priorities, knowing there was no looking back from the path he’d chosen for himself, and no means to back out from the oath he’d taken when he’d donned the white cloak.

_ Every problem has a way out, _ advised the same inner voice again. _ You’re not bound to Cersei for life. You need not wear the white cloak for eternity. Be the man your father wishes you to be. Make him proud. Be the Lannister you were meant to be, not the bodyguard that you’ve forced yourself to become. _

If only Brienne too felt the same about him. If only she considered him worthy enough for her. If only he was worthy enough to have her. If she could ever look beyond her undying devotion to Renly, and up to him, giving him a chance to shower all the affection he could upon her.

_ If only… _

A lot of ifs, there were, and so many uncertainties. 

A sigh escaped him when he got off the bed, reluctant to resume the journey, for that would mean he’d cease to see more of her. The sooner they got to King’s Landing, the faster the dreaded moment would arrive, because nothing was more important to her than honouring the commitment she had made to Catelyn Stark.

All good things came to an end some day, and so would this memorable journey he’d shared with the woman he’d despised, to begin with, respected, as the weeks rolled by, come to care for and fallen in love with, eventually - all within a span of just a few months.

+++++

With Steelshanks bustling around, ordering them to hurry up and get their asses on their mounts as they gathered at the gates of the inn, Jaime had no opportunity to speak to her, not in private, at least. Commencing their journey again, they rode on to their inevitable destination, and time and again, his eyes kept darting towards her, the singular thought of what opinion she had of him consuming every minute and every second of his thoroughly confounded and tangled brain. But never once did she spare him a look, nor did she make any attempt to acknowledge that last night had, in fact, happened for real.

_ She probably wants to just wipe out everything that had come to be, _ he assumed the worst. _ So put off by my advances she is, that she cannot even look me in the eye. _

_ Or, perhaps, she’s just too shy to face you, _chimed in the same motivating voice again, making its presence felt and igniting a spark of hope in his chest. To that being a possibility, he had to agree, for she was a woman, after all, no different from any other, despite being so unlike another.

Thoughts piling up within him one after the other, some encouraging, whilst others depressing, he rode on, wondering what fate had in store for him.

“Let’s stop here for a while,” Steelshanks shouted, and only then did Jaime realize that it was time for lunch, pushing aside the nagging fact that the uneasiness in his stomach had nothing to do with hunger. 

While the men busied themselves distributing whatever meager supplies they’d managed to gather from the inn, he utilized the time to closely observe Brienne. She’d barely spoken a word since morning, and he took to scrutinizing every move she made, intently studying every expression on her face, searching for hints that might give away the feelings that resided deep within the stores of her heart.

_ If there are any feelings, _he corrected his premature conclusion with another lengthy sigh. 

It was time, however, to get past the stage of assumptions and enter the realm of certainties. The time had come to talk to her. His limbs beyond the control of his instructions, and his knees wobbly and weak, it was a miracle that he managed to shed his reservations and approach her. “Lady Brienne,” he said, stamping down the edge of desperation in his voice as he uttered her name, hoping he sounded like his usual self, and not the love-struck idiot he felt like from within.

Hastily putting aside the saddle bag she was rummaging through, she looked up at him, giving him a glimpse, at last, of the pretty eyes he so longed to look into. “Ser Jaime,” she acknowledged his presence, saying nothing further, leaving the conversation as well as the tension between them open for him to resolve.

“May I?” he asked, jerking his head towards a rock that lay beside her.

She nodded, and while he made himself comfortable on the stone, he couldn’t help but notice a few faint spots of pink dusting her cheeks. If she blushed at his arrival, then she probably--

Deciding not to waste further time, he pushed himself to explain why he’d barged into her room unannounced last night. “Listen, Brienne--” he began with all the confidence he could summon, but within a second, was overwhelmed by confusion and a sudden drought of words in his head. What would he say his advances were a result of? A drunken surrender to his instincts? A case of uncontrollable lust? Only a part of the truth that would be, for a mistake, it probably would have been, had they succumbed to the power of the alcohol in their veins, but mere lust, it definitely was not, though he hadn’t known then, what it was that he’d harboured for her. A mistake, it might have been, but only because he’d been unsure about her wishes and desires, uncomfortable to taint her honour before he could give himself to her wholeheartedly. 

_ But you became hers the day you jumped into that pit for her, with no care nor concern for anything but her welfare. You are hers, and so is your heart, mind and soul, and you will always be hers. So what, then, is the problem? Tell her, _ urged his overly interfering conscience, _ for you love Cersei no more. You wish, no more, to lead the life you once wanted to. _

“Brienne, I--” Once again he broke off mid-sentence, the man who’d once minced no words to hurl the choicest insults at her - the very best his brain could’ve conjured, now reduced to a pitiful bundle of nerves, nursing his inability to tell the same woman that he loved her.

While she said nothing, she locked her gaze onto his, her eyes expectantly searching his for what was to come next.

“Don’t you sometimes crave for a life of your own?” he asked the first question that popped into his head, hoping to gain an insight on her views about marriage and taking a husband.

She narrowed her eyes to a quizzical look. “I’m leading the life I wanted to,” she asserted, “a life dedicated to serving the woman I pledged myself to--” She trailed away as soon as she mentioned Catelyn Stark, her voice sounding as if she’d been hit by a strong bout of cold. “Although she no longer lives, there’s nothing more I’d ask for, than to be able to live up to her expectations,” she added, reminding him of the cruel death his father had awarded all the Starks he could lay his hands on. His heart went out to her, and he wished he could gather her in his arms and comfort her, to share her grief and show her that he’d always be there for her. But she gave him no such opportunity. Taking control of her emotions the moment she noted his growing interest in them, she straightened her back, her voice returning to its usual crisp note again. “I strive to serve her family now.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” he said, frustrated that she hadn’t picked up the hint he’d thrown at her. “What I meant was--”

“What?”

_ I love you, and no one, but you. _

“Nothing,” he mumbled, developing cold feet again.

“We’d better get ourselves some food,” she said, conveniently deflecting the subject. 

When she was about to get up, he decided to try another method. “You wanted to know why I returned to Harrenhal, didn’t you?” The out-of-context intervention worked, and she eased back on to her perch, glancing down at her hands with a deep breath. 

“You refused to tell me, Ser Jaime,” she spoke to her lap, fidgeting with her fingers in nervous anticipation.

“I returned because I--” _ had left something behind, _he would’ve said, but for the rude interruption that came in the form of a chaotic eruption of a squabble just about some distance behind him. Annoyed because the words had just been at the tip of his tongue, he opened his mouth to continue, when Brienne jumped to her feet, her eyes widening in alarm, her agitation making him follow suit.

“Intruders,” she yelped, pushing him aside and rushing to Steelshanks and his group who were locked in an armed struggle with a gang who’d ambushed them from out of nowhere.. 

Taking it to be a bunch of petty thieves at first, Jaime didn’t stir. It was only when he took in the endless clink of swords and the chilling cries of men screaming around him, did he realize the gravity of the situation, and how severely outnumbered they were. His first thought was to ensure Brienne was safe, but before he could issue a warning or tell her to watch out, she had disappeared into the battling crowd of men. He waded into where the action was the thickest, hoping to do his bit, wishing he could, somehow, rekindle the dead warrior within him. Someone, one of their escorts, threw him a sword, and for a second, he stood rooted to the spot, having no clue how to wield the weapon they’d thrust into his wrong hand.

“Ser Jaime, keep away from here, get someplace safe and hide,” cried Brienne, madly thrusting the sword she’d been supplied with into the belly of one of their attackers. “Hurry!”

Paying no heed to a word of what she’d said, he advanced with abandon, the only obsession inside his head, the only objective he was aiming for, being the safety of the woman he loved. 

The woman he couldn’t afford to lose. Not before he’d allowed himself a chance of a life with her.

He blindly swung the blade around, targeting at nothing in particular, for he sorely lacked the skill to point and stab effectively with the hand that absolutely refused to obey his command. In his head, he knew exactly what needed to be done, but sadly, that wasn’t enough. If only his hand did him the favour of co-operating, if only he could do more than play a helpless victim that needed to be protected...

The tussle went on, and Jaime, to his surprise, managed to strike down one of their opponents, his blade ripping through the man’s heart. One look at the gush of blood from the wound that adorned the man’s chest, and he was struck by a burst of confidence, something that had left him along with his severed hand, never to surface until now. Luck, though it may have been, it still was his first kill in months. He couldn’t afford more than a few seconds to savour his success, and tearing his eyes from the corpse he’d made of the man who stood there not many seconds earlier, he looked around wildly, wanting to score more than one victory. But peace and quiet reigned again. The enemy had been vanquished. 

Steelshanks’ men had prevailed. They wouldn’t perish. Not today.

Relieved, he was about to check if the wench was unhurt when he heard her yell, “Watch out!” 

Jaime spun around, only to find himself face to face with a lone survivor of the pack that had pounced on them. He quickly gauged his options. A gap of more than a couple of feet between them, he could make it if he aimed right. Tightening his grip on his weapon, he was ready to get himself into position, when the wench charged at him, putting herself between him and his assailant.

She lunged at the man, and the next few seconds were a blur. The stranger was no mean warrior, for he proved to be a worthy opponent, warding off her blade with deftly planned defenses, and launching attacks that kept her occupied long enough to frustrate her. The struggle went on for a while, and Brienne knocked him down, engaging in a death-match with him as she placed herself firmly atop him, pinning him to the ground and rendering him immovable. She ultimately prevailed, digging her blade deep into his chest, and with a blood curdling roar the man collapsed in a vastly spreading pool of blood. 

She staggered off the man and scrambled to her feet, leaving Jaime heaving a huge sigh of relief. _ Thank the gods, _he prayed, but on a closer look, he realized, to his horror, that something was gravely amiss. 

Her back to him, Brienne sank to her knees, dropping the weapon to the ground, panting heavily, and within the next few seconds, crumpled into a heap beside the man whose life she’d taken, thereby saving Jaime from almost certain death.

His heart forgetting to beat for a panic-filled moment, he rushed to her, the angry gash on her chest and the blood trickling from it in a steadily increasing stream leaving him horrified and short of breath. 

“Gods, no!” he gasped, kneeling beside her.

“Ser J--Jaime--” It appeared as if she wanted to say something, but strength slowly seemed to abandon her, as did the ability to keep her eyes open.

“Yes, wench, I’m here,” he said, bending over to caress her forehead. 

“You’re safe,” she whispered, fighting to get every word past her parched lips. That was all she could manage, her big blue eyes latched on to his. Pain, there was, in them, but relief, despite that, and satisfaction and contentment that she had kept her side of the bargain in protecting him. At once, he was hit by a pang of shame when he recalled the way he’d taunted her inability to protect him earlier.

“Goodbye, Ser Jaime,” she whispered, her eyelids fluttering hopelessly, the light in her usually luminous eyes dying away bit by bit.

“It’s not goodbye,” he cried hoarsely, scooping her battered body in his arms. “Don’t die like this, Brienne, don’t leave me alone.” 

She opened her mouth one last time to speak, but went limp in his arms, saying no more, moving no more. 

“I love you, Brienne,” he confessed in desperation, holding her close to his chest and watching helplessly as her eyes lost focus, shutting down on him. For the first time in his life, he looked up to the Seven for divine intervention. “Don’t take her away from me,” his lips moved in a silent prayer, "please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne isn't dead :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Brienne is on the road to recovery, Jaime meets a surprise visitor.

Jaime held her to his chest, counting every heartbeat he could make out, her slow laboured breaths pumping a ray of hope into him, a faint chance that she might make it. Blood, he could feel through his shirt, its warm stickiness reminding him that he couldn’t keep sitting here, doing nothing.

“I need someone here,” he roared, looking around wildly like a man possessed. “She’s been struck, unconscious and bleeding. Send for Qyburn immediately.” Until help arrived, he spent the few precious seconds he had with her limp form, tenderly stroking her pale face, wishing more than anything else, that the eyes that had always managed to hold him captive would once more unleash their charm on him.

The elderly maester arrived, and with him came Steelshanks and another of his men. Wasting no time, Qyburn crouched beside them to examine her pulse. “Erratic,” he observed, the lines on his forehead deepening as he let go of her wrist. “And she’s rapidly losing blood.” His vacant eyes bearing no sign of optimism nor any indication of peril, he instructed them, “Take her to the tent.”

With Steelshanks’ help, Jaime carried her inside, and once they’d laid her on the bedroll someone had spread out for her, Qyburn gestured that they leave him alone with her.

“I’m staying,” Jaime insisted, unwilling to let her out of his sight again. “Do what you will in my presence.”

Qyburn didn’t lose his composure, his aged eyes gazing upon Jaime with paternal compassion. “Survivor’s guilt is painful, my lord, and you’re agitated. While I do understand how you feel, what I need is peace and quiet to work,” he reasoned. “That’s why it’s better you stay outside.” When Jaime refused to budge even an inch, he went on, this time in a sterner tone, “If you don’t want me to err, I’m afraid you’ll have to obey. I’m an old man with failing eyes and not so nimble fingers. She’s in a very delicate condition, and I need to work with utmost concentration. You do understand, I hope.”

With a reluctant nod, Jaime left the tent, pacing around wherever he could. Not for a moment, did he rest, nor did he touch the food Steelshanks tried to coax him into eating. Minutes passed, yet there was no word from Qyburn, nor any sight of him. Frustrated with having nothing fruitful to do, he resorted to circling the tent, picking up an occasional pebble from the ground and hurling it into the wilderness for want of anything better to do, his mind locked with thoughts of the wench and nothing but her. Minutes rolled into hours - one, or two, he couldn’t say, and after what seemed like an eternity, the old healer exited the tent, his serene face bearing no emotion, nor any indication of good or bad.

Rushing towards him, Jaime grabbed his arm in a surge of urgency and anxiety that nearly ripped him apart. “How is--”

“I’ve arrested the bleeding and stitched the wound.”

That was good. That _ had to be _ good, right? The maester’s expression, however, was far from comforting when he went on, “But--”

A nauseating feeling of doom swept up his chest as he tightened his grip on Qyburn’s arm. “But--what?”

“She’s still unconscious.” A flash of concern, Jaime could see in those intelligent eyes, but soon it had vanished.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s almost evening now. We have to wait until morning and hope she opens her eyes by then,” said the healer. The annoyingly soothing fatherly tone was back. “Don’t worry, she’ll come around.” 

Jaime, however, wasn’t taken in by his fake reassurance. “If not?”

With a deep breath, Qyburn placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Let’s pray she does. Someone needs to stay by her side all night--”

“I’ll do it,” Jaime volunteered, and immediately went in, forgetting everything but Brienne the instant he set eyes on her.

Seating himself by her side, he took her hand. “Get up, wench,” he begged, her lifeless body flooding him with such despair that he’d never felt before. “This isn’t the way you’re going. Not for a worthless oathbreaker like me.” Fighting to control the tears that pricked the corners of his eyes, he brought her hand to his lips. “What would I do without you?” he lamented, gazing into the face he'd once had no qualms criticising.

Still holding her hand, he bent over, bringing his face as close to hers as he could. “I apologize for every nasty moment I’ve given you,” he said, his lips brushing over her forehead, the heat from her feverish skin seeping into his. Planting a trail of tender kisses down her face, he reached her mouth, his lips coming to rest on hers. “I wish I could give you the life a lady like you deserves,” he whispered, kissing her softly. “I wish you’d give me a chance to show you how much you mean to me.” 

He stayed like that, his lips on hers, his fingers threaded into hers and his chest hugging her breasts, unwilling to let go, ready to battle the Stranger if he dared come for her tonight. 

“My lord.”

Jaime jumped away, startled by the interruption, and in came Qyburn with a small vial in his hands. “If she wakes during the night--” he handed the bottle to Jaime “--make sure she gets two drops of this.”

Jaime placed the essence of whatever-it-was on the floor by his side. “I’ll stay awake all night.”

“Good night, my lord.” Qyburn turned to take his leave, but halted when he reached the exit.

“Any more instructions for me?” asked Jaime, his anxiety mounting again.

“Just one.” The old man spun around, giving him an appraising look that left him unusually uncomfortable. “I can sense that there is--” he paused, as if in search of the most tactful way to spill out whatever was in his mind. “There’s something you wish to tell her,” he said, thankfully neither asking, nor going into details of what exactly he meant. “If I were you, I’d hold on to my feelings until she completely recovers. The next few days are going to be quite critical for her, and I’d advise you to refrain from exposing her to any shocks or surprises.”

“I had no such intention,” Jaime hurriedly jumped to his defence, eager to keep his mind away from the prying old man. “There’s no need for you to fear.”

“I think you know what I mean, ser, and I hope you'll take care,” the maester made his order clear, his sharp tone indicating he meant no nonsense. “Pleasant or unpleasant, anything out of the usual routine can wait. I’m sure you’ll find a suitable opportunity later.”

+++++

A moan it was that had woken him up, or was it a groan? Whatever it was, it meant signs of life. It implied she wouldn’t die, not immediately, at least. She’d open her eyes and look at him again. She’d walk and talk to him again, and that thought alone filled him with optimism, the new dawn bringing with it a new burst of sunshine in his life.

Eager to be of assistance and at her service, Jaime straightened, watching with bated breath as she stirred beside him, her eyelids half-shut. “Please wake up,” he implored, still holding on to her hand as tightly as he could. He’d fallen asleep beside her last night, taking care not to let go of her hand for even a moment.

Seconds trudged along, every one of it as long as a year, but he waited. Patience wasn’t a virtue he could boast of, but overnight he seemed to have acquired it, and mastered it, even. Hells, he’d wait all his life, if that was what it’d take for her to recover and talk to him again!

“Ser Jaime,” came her toneless voice at last, and her eyes fluttered open.

“I’m here,” he almost sobbed in relief, bending to look into the eyes he’d so longed to have one more glimpse of.

She craned her neck to look around, absorbing her surroundings, perhaps trying to recollect and come to terms with everything she’d been through. “How long have I been asleep?” she croaked, her voice feeble and devoid of its usual crispness.

“You nearly died,” he told her, shuddering at the imagination of the worst. “You took a wound for me, you stupid wench.”

A ghost of a smile lit up her washed out features, a sign that her mental stability was unaffected.

“Why?” he asked, unable to hold back anymore.

“You first,” she insisted in return, implying he still owed her an explanation for Harrenhal. “Why?”

“You know why,” he replied, careful not to say anything more until she’d stabilised.

For a while she said nothing, gathering the strength to speak again. “Chivalry, wasn't it?” she sighed, throwing him completely off-track with her misunderstood deduction of his cryptic answer. “I know there’s honour in you, Ser Jaime, and I couldn’t let that die, could I? That's why I--”

“Chivalry?” he repeated in disbelief. “That’s--” _ not what it was, _ he meant to tell her. _ I came back to Harrenhal because I love you, _he was about to say, when he recalled the words of confession he’d blurted out in desperation before she had collapsed in his arms. “How much of yesterday do you remember?” he cautiously asked, changing the subject and holding his breath for her answer.

She shut her eyes wearily, opening them again after a few seconds. “Not much, just that I was glad you were unhurt. I did whatever I could manage to keep you alive.”

_ She heard none of it, not the cries of my heart, nor my pleas to the gods! _

“So you decided to repay chivalry with chivalry,” he said, pain taking over every corner of his heart as the true intention behind her impulsive move dawned upon him. A debt was what she was trying to settle. A life for a life.

“I’m no knight,” she said, with regret, “but I’ve always wanted to be one. And try as I might, I can never repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

_ What about everything you have done for me? Because of you I’m the knight I always wanted to be, the man I was always meant to be. Because of you I’m alive, you stupid stubborn wench! _

“Brienne--” _ I love you, _he nearly told her, but taking one look at her colourless face and the way she struggled for mere survival, he held back, recalling Qyburn’s warning. He wasn’t yet sure if she felt the same. He didn’t know how she’d react to his confession, if it would please her or agitate her. Sure, the agony within him had been killing him since the night he’d been intimate with her, but he could bear with it for a few more days.

“Yes?”

“Get some more rest,” he told her instead, picking up the vial by his side and pouring a couple of drops on her lips. 

Staggering to his feet, he made his way outside and straight to Qyburn’s tent. “She’s awake,” he burst out in relief to the maester who was just getting out of bed. “Tell me she’ll be all right.”

“Calm down, my lord,” drawled Qyburn, with a tired yawn as he stretched his limbs. “Let me re-dress her wounds first. We have to stay here for a day or two and then we ought to take her back to the inn--”

“We can’t go back!” exclaimed Steelshanks, whose presence Jaime had only now noticed.

“We have to,” Qyburn asserted, a steely edge to his voice. “We’re barely an hour away from the inn, whereas King’s Landing is still quite a distance away. She can’t make that journey, not in the state she’s in.”

Steelshanks had set his mind upon an argument. “Why can’t you treat her here? We’re losing precious time--”

Before Jaime could stop himself, his hand flew to the man’s shirt, his temper blown apart and his senses out of his control. “If she loses her _ precious _ life because of your stupid whims, I’m going to make sure you’re _preciously_ rewarded--”

“Calm down, you both,” Qyburn intervened with the air of a wary parent preventing his children from squabbling, and Jaime loosened his grip to let go of Steelshanks, who continued to glare at him. “I don’t have enough supplies to treat her here,” the maester put forth his concern, “and even if I did, she’d need a proper room and a bed to rest for a few days. This isn’t the place for a critically injured woman.”

Steelshanks considered his reasoning for a moment. “We don’t have the gold to pay for the inn.”

“Leave that to me,” Jaime was quick to suggest. “As soon as we reach the inn, I’ll send a raven to my father. He’ll arrange for whatever gold we need.”

“That settles it, then,” said Qyburn, looking alternately between the two of them, imploring them to restore peace again.

The rest of the day went by with Jaime sticking to the wench’s side like a leech, insisting on spending every minute near her. 

He offered to help when she began struggling with her shirt, wanting to dress herself in proper clothes instead of the sheet that covered her modesty. “I can do it myself, Ser Jaime,” she tried to ward him off, her neck and chest a bright shade of red when he attempted to uncover the bedspread she'd worn.

He chuckled at her embarrassment, something stirring within him as he recalled a certain bath. “I’ve seen you wearing far lesser than this,” he said, pulling the sheet off her chest to reveal her modest breasts. “Don’t worry, I won’t look at your teats,” he murmured, hurriedly turning his face away to hide his real emotions from her, whilst hoping the rapidly growing bulge in his breeches would soon subside.

+++++

Two days later, when Brienne had gained strength enough to make the short trip to the inn, Qyburn decided it was time to move on, citing that the sooner they got there, the faster he could commence her onward treatment.

Since she was incapable of riding by herself, they had put her on Jaime's horse. They galloped away, and as soon as they were on the road, the rhythmic movement of their mount and the cool breeze began to work their magic, and she drifted away, reclining against him and resting her head on his shoulder. Overcome by a sudden unbearable impulse, he kissed her head, wishing for the moment to never end, hoping they could stay like this forever. He held her securely against him, his stump around her waist and her back merged into his chest.

“I love you,” he whispered, when she was fast asleep. “I hope I get an opportunity to tell you this soon.”

A short journey that it was, he had no time to linger in the moment, nor savour the warmth of her body against his, for they’d reached their destination in just about an hour.

“Wake up,” he gently roused her when he’d brought the animal to a halt, “we’ve reached.”

She turned to him with eyes full of sleep, eyes that challenged him to forget all caution and kiss her like he’d never kissed anyone before.

“Come on,” he said, instead, helping her off the horse as soon as he’d alighted.

Together, they huddled indoors. Seating her on a bench nearby, he made his way to the innkeep, hoping he could negotiate the payment without hassles. “Rooms for all of us,” he demanded, pointing to his company. “Payment will be arranged for in a few--”

The innkeep made a face. “No credit,” he gruffly refused.

Anger rising in his chest, he had every intention to lash out at the man, to show him who he was and threaten him for his audacity. “I’m--” _ Tywin Lannister’s son, _he was about to boast, but held back recalling the ambush they’d suffered. If some of Robb Stark’s rogue bannermen still roamed around, seeking revenge for their king’s death, it wouldn’t be wise to reveal his identity. “I’m Lord Tywin’s distant nephew,” he cooked up a tale, instead. “We were travelling from Riverrun, and as you might have noticed, we were here not many days ago. We had to return because we were attacked by the bloody mummers, and my wife here--” he turned to Brienne “--is gravely injured. Allow me to send a raven to Lord Tywin, and you’ll get all the gold you want.”

The innkeep regarded him for a moment, taking in his disheveled appearance. “Very well,” he grunted, handing him a handful of keys without further incident.

Relieved, Jaime kept one for himself and handed out the rest to the group when Qyburn approached him. “Your _ wife _, my lord,” he began, his expression hinting disapproval, “I’m not sure that was a good idea. If I were you, I’d stay in a separate room, not share a bed with her.” He lowered his voice, leaning in to whisper, “People talk, even the walls have eyes and ears.” 

“I don’t have a choice,” said Jaime, disregarding his warning. “It’s her safety I’m worried about. I’m not leaving her alone for even a minute. What if something happens to her during the night?”

Qyburn gave up with a resigned sigh. “As you wish, my lord.”

With nothing more to be said, Jaime supported her up the stairs, leading her to the room they were to spend the next few days in. 

The moment they’d entered, a loud knock followed them. Jaime answered the door to find a well-built man, seemingly of noble birth, with red hair and a bushy beard of the same colour standing there, peering around him as if in search of something. “Is Brienne of Tarth in here?”

Jaime’s stomach gave a lurch, for he had not revealed their true identities to the innkeep nor anyone else here. Who could this be? And how did he know Brienne was here? 

When he continued to gape at the stranger, the man went on, “I’m Ser Ronnet Connington.”

“There’s no Brienne of Tarth here,” Jaime decided to lie.

Despite that, the man refused to budge. “I saw her downstairs, and I know she’s here,” he firmly insisted, leaving Jaime stunned once again. “Now if you’d be kind enough to let me meet her--”

“How do you know her?”

“I was once betrothed to her,” revealed the knight called Connington, “and I wish to reinstate the alliance because I made a huge mistake in turning her down when we were younger.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting, few arguments, an altercation and a revelation

_ I wish to reinstate the alliance. _

The words were a knife to his belly, twisting his insides like hell; a cruel bolt of lightning that blatantly pointed out to him that he’d end up losing the wench to this ginger-head if he didn’t make haste. Act on his feelings, he would, sooner or later, but all Jaime could do at the moment, was stand there and gape at the stranger before him. Betrothed to the wench? And she'd never bothered to even make a mention of it. Not once in the several weeks of their acquaintance did she think it important to tell him.

_ Why would she tell me? With the exception of the last few days, when have I ever been anything other than hostile to her? _

The man called Connington waited, but his initially polite demeanor gradually began to assume the unsavory shape of impatience and he broke the silence, unable to stand it anymore, “Ser Jaime, I’m afraid I must insist on meeting her at this very moment.”

Another jolt of shock ripped him apart, filling him with a different kind of dread. The man was not only aware of Brienne’s whereabouts, but also well informed about his identity. 

_ Who the fuck is he and what are his real intentions? _

“Why did you call me Ser Jaime?” he dared to ask when he’d found his tongue.

Connington looked mildly surprised, but mostly smug that he’d entered this battle with an upper hand. “Because that’s who you are, my lord,” he stated with confidence, glancing down at Jaime’s bandaged stump. “You might have convinced the innkeep with a fake name and a bagful of lies, but I’m better than that. I also know that you aren’t Brienne’s husband.”

“Then you’d also be aware that Lady Brienne is recovering from a grave injury,” he supplied, a sudden dislike biasing him against every word Ser Ronnet spoke. “She needs rest.”

“I know,” said Connington, advancing into the room, “but I really have to speak to her, to tell her that I--”

“However important it is,” cut in Jaime, placing a firm hand on his chest that made it clear he had no interest in entertaining him, “she can’t talk to you tonight. You can tell her later--”

“Tell me what?” came the wench’s tired voice from behind him. And before Jaime could keep their visitor away from her, she took in his unannounced arrival, her pale face turning whiter by the second.

“Nothing,” said Jaime hastily, attempting to close the door on the intruder, but undeterred by his attempt to keep him away, Connington nudged his way in, completely ignoring Jaime and his looks of disapproval whilst having eyes only for Brienne. “What the hell!” exclaimed Jaime, the audacity of the man making him want to knock his teeth out. “I already made it clear that you can’t see her--”

“Let him in, please,” Brienne intervened again, her tone beginning to recover bits of its usual steeliness. “I’d like to listen to what he has to say.”

While her health was his main concern, Jaime couldn’t help but feel a mild sense of insecurity snaking up his chest, a possibility that she might, gods forbid, reconsider the match. “You need to sleep,” he declined her request, hoping his insistence would dissuade her from a conversation tonight. 

“Why are you here?” she demanded of Connington, paying no heed to Jaime’s protests. “Have you brought me another rose, Ser Ronnet?” Hurt, he could clearly sense in her tone, and her eyes blazed with bitterness and fury, both deterrents to her recovery.

While Jaime had expected him to cower and cringe under the look she punished him with, Connington, however, appeared to be unperturbed by her far from friendly welcome. “My lady.” He swiftly advanced towards her, his voice bearing a tender note to it when he spoke to her. “Allow me to explain my presence.”

“Have you come to mock me again?” she hissed, eyes full of disgust.

“I’ve come to ask you to be my wife,” Ser Ronnet answered in a dignified tone.

“Why? You handed me a bloody flower like you were doing me a favour, and categorically stated that it was all I could expect from you,” she said, her voice slowly rising. Jaime noticed her hands shaking in rage, a warning that this verbal sparring had to be put to an end.

“And you crushed me and my dignity when we last met,” Connington replied, still maintaining a calm in contrast to the oncoming storm that she was. “Are we not even? Have you not had your revenge?”

“We might be even, but that still doesn’t explain the reason you dared present yourself as a suitor again,” she cried, her face now whiter than a ghost.

Jaime could make out that the stress was beginning to rapidly drain her strength. “I think that’s enough,” he butted in, “we can talk later--”

“Accept my apology, Brienne,” Ronnet continued to put up a valiant effort to convince her, oblivious to the vulnerability of Brienne’s physical and mental state, “and my hand along with it, for neither of us can make a better marriage than this--”

“I’d rather make no marriage than one with you,” she went on, her voice louder than her usual, “and I--” Struggling for breath, she lost her balance and stumbled.

“My lady.” Ronnet leaped ahead to grab her, but Jaime was much quicker, reaching out to hold her before the obnoxious stranger could come anywhere close to her.

“You’re going back to bed, Brienne, is that understood?” he commanded, wrapping his stump around his waist and her arm around his shoulders. “Any conversation or--” he turned to flash Connington a cautionary glare “--_ proposal _ or whatever else you intend to talk to her about can wait.” Too weary to object to his instructions, she leaned on him, allowing him to lead her inside. Once he’d settled her in bed, he returned to Connington who was still pacing by the entrance, having no intention of withdrawing his futile attempts. “You heard her, and she’s made her decision clear,” said Jaime, his disdain for the man much higher now. “Leave now, Ser, and--”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Ser Ronnet intervened, throwing Jaime a scrutinizing look, “but this is a matter between the Maid of Tarth and myself, so I’d request you to leave it to us to sort it out.”

Tempted as he was to speak on behalf of the wench and drive this nuisance away, Jaime refrained from presenting the man with an adverse reaction. Brienne was capable enough to ward off scum like these--scum he had assumed, Connington was, from whatever he could put together from the scraps of their past he could gather from their argument. “Very well,” he conceded, “speak to her if you must, but after a day or two. If you care enough for her, I’m sure you’ll allow her time to recover.”

Ser Ronnet, instead of leaving, regarded Jaime with a suspicious stare. “I hope not to sound too pertinent, but there’s one thing I’d like to know,” he began, with a cautious note. “I know you’re not wed to her, so what there is, Ser Jaime, between you and her?”

_ Respect. Regard. Friendship... Love. All of it beyond your bloody narrow mind and comprehension. _

“That will be all, Ser Ronnet,” Jaime dismissed him, having no inclination to entertain his aptitude for gossip.

A flicker of hesitation later, Connington turned to the door with a polite bow and an, “I’ll talk to her later.”

Shutting the door and their visitor out of his sight, Jaime ambled into the room. The Conningtons, as far as he could recollect, had fought alongside Renly in the War of the Five Kings. If this man walked around alive in such proximity to King’s Landing, it could only mean one thing - he’d sworn allegiance to Joffrey, which would explain the courtesy he’d extended to Jaime knowing full well the consequences he’d face if he had behaved otherwise.

But why, then, did he suddenly want to rekindle the ties he’d broken years ago? To his horror, that led to another thought that began to torment him. What if Brienne decided to forgive him and accept his damned proposal?

_ She won’t, _ his inner voice calmed him down, _ not after he’s insulted her in the past. _

Hoping for the turbulence within him to ebb away, he took his place by her side on the bed, but his pessimistic self refused to leave him be, poking its nose into his unsettled mind, polluting it with clouds darker than the ones already looming over it. _ He _ had been insulting and harsh with her in the past as well. He’d hated her and wished her a violent death, hoping to mete it out to her himself. But all that had transpired in a life prior to this, when he’d been a different person. Today, all he prayed for, was for her wounds to heal, and for her to be happy. The past didn’t really matter much if one was willing to change. So what if this Ser Connington did sincerely repent his mistake and wish to marry Brienne?

Pushing aside the negativity inside him, he decided to divert his mind by writing to his father. Only when he reached out for the parchment on the side-table, did he remember that he no longer possessed his writing hand.

“Need help?” Brienne called out from under the covers.

“I’d very much appreciate it,” he accepted, handing her the parchment when she sat up, wondering if he would ever come to terms with the loss of his limb.

+++++

A week had passed since Connington had turned up, and Jaime had been cautious not to broach the subject with Brienne for fear of agitating her. Ser Ronnet, fortunately, hadn’t shown up after that, leaving Jaime relieved and hoping the man had decided to give up chasing an impossible dream. The only person to visit them thrice a day was Qyburn, turning up diligently to administer the necessary treatment and change her bandages from time to time. Peace prevailed for a while and the wench, to his satisfaction, was on a road to rapid recovery.

Jaime took a few moments to marvel at his luck that morning. He’d risen some time back to find her fast asleep beside him, her golden locks reflecting the rays of the mid-morning sun. Not having the heart to disturb her, he spent the next few minutes admiring her, watching her chest rise and fall in steady breaths, glad to notice that the colour was gradually beginning to return to her cheeks. Oh, how he’d love to see her blush again! And he’d do anything to put a smile on those lips. How he’d give all the gold he owned and so much more just to wake up next to her every morning for the rest of his life!

She stirred, her eyes flickering open as she lazily stretched her limbs. “It’s well past breakfast,” he said, when she appeared reluctant to leave the bed. “Get up. You must be hungry.”

A quick bath later, he stepped out with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Almost immediately, he noticed her eyes wander all over him, coming to a halt on his bare chest. A momentary gleam, he thought, he’d noted in them, but the very next instant, she was back to her usual self. “I need a bath too,” she whispered, swiftly averting her eyes.

“Your wounds haven’t healed yet, so make sure the bandages remain dry.” He reached over, and unlacing her shirt, he examined the dressing. She trembled when his fingers ghosted her skin, and looked up, their eyes meeting for a brief second. Eyes often conveyed a lot, and if he could trust what he perceived in hers, there definitely had to be something from her side too, something that could be construed as more than just respect for him, or a mere formal acquaintance. But eyes, at times, misled too, and the emotions housed within those deep blue pools could just be nothing more than deep regard and friendship for him.

The agony that ripped through every part of him when he undressed her was insurmountable, and the great self-control it took him to restrain himself, pure torment. One slip of his will power, and he was afraid he'd succumb, to his passion, to his heart, desiring no more than to kiss her senseless and make love to her on this very bed. Torture it was, when he helped her into the bath, the heat from her soft skin searing through his, leaving unforgettable sensations behind, though she wasn’t his yet to touch or kiss. Relief, it should’ve been, when he averted his eyes and left the bath, but his pain was here to stay, to make every moment of his life hell until he could tell her. 

Until he could make her his. Before Ser Ronnet or any other cunt could get near her.

Jealousy threatened to show its ugly face again as his mind skimmed over that night’s happenings, his hopeful conclusion that Connington had given up, dissolving away, giving rise, once more, to the alarm he’d been struck with a week ago. 

What if the knight was just biding his time? What if he returned to woo her into an agreement?

++++

“So,” began Jaime, bringing up the matter as delicately as he could while they ate, no longer able to hold it within him. “You never told me you were betrothed.” She straightened at his indirect reference to Connington, the forlorn look in her eyes telling him that this wasn’t a pleasant memory to relive. “It’s quite alright if you don’t want to talk about it,” he hastily told her, her well being his first priority although he desperately wanted to know more about the life she’d led before they had met. “You don’t have to punish yourself--” 

“Thrice,” she said, stabbing at her meat glumly, “Red Ronnet was the second to have turned me down. Another came after him, and thankfully, there won't be any more after them.”

“There will be others,” Jaime pointed out, trying not to let his heart sink any further at her extreme conclusion. “Not all suitors are like him. There might live a man who’d want you for who you are, not what you can give him.”

“There will be no more,” she vehemently declared, her temper rising again, “not like him, not like anyone else--”

Scared that he might upset her again, Jaime decided to divert the subject, when an irritatingly familiar voice called out from behind him, “Is this a good time to talk, Brienne?”

Jaime was about to leap into an objection, to drive this annoying Ser Ronnet away, but he held back, waiting for Brienne to respond. It was her right to refuse the man who’d once spurned her, and he wouldn’t deny her that privilege.

Connington’s eyes narrowed when they settled on Jaime with a clear sign that told him to get the hell out of there. “My lord, if you could leave us alone to talk--”

“Ser Jaime is going nowhere,” Brienne asserted on his behalf. “Talk what you will in his presence, or we’re not having this conversation at all.”

Ronnet frowned at him, but unwilling to lose an opportunity to meet her, he dragged a stool from the nearby table and placed himself next to Jaime.

“Yes, Ser Ronnet?” asked Brienne, her voice bearing an impatient edge when he’d made himself at home.

Connington wasted no time, coming directly to the point. “Marry me, Brienne. We’re both heirs to our houses, and if we happened to die without leaving behind one of ours, it would deeply hurt our fathers. Together we can head Tarth and Griffin’s Roost.”

Brienne pushed away her plate. “Was this not what our fathers had intended for us years ago?” she demanded, her chin wobbling. “Where, then, was your regard for your father’s wishes?”

Red Ronnet appeared determined and persuasive. “I was a lad of ten and eight, foolish and lacking in sense,” he persisted. “My folly lay in refusing to accept you--”

“You insulted me,” she interrupted, her voice once again dangerously loud.

“You resorted to no less,” Ronnet lashed out, losing his composure at last. “Remember, at the melee--”

“I beat you fair and square,” Brienne reminded him. “So pathetic you were, that you lost to a bloody woman.”

“Brienne, calm down,” Jaime tried to make peace, but the wench was in no state to listen to any advice.

“Ser Ronnet, I’d request you to leave us alone,” she said, with an air of certainty and dismissal.

Ronnet banged the table with his fist, his flaming cheeks matching his beard. “I came here thinking you’d see sense, that you’d put the future of your house before your stupid aspirations and marry as your father wished you to.”

Brienne was determined to put him in his place. “My aspirations are none of your concern.” 

“Who would marry you?” asked Ronnet, throwing her a condescending look. “You ought to fall at my feet for agreeing to accept you. If you turn me down, you’d end up an old maid—”

“You’ve had no success all these years in finding yourself a wife,” snapped Brienne, blood rushing up the column of her neck. “That’s why you’ve come here seeking me out. You had no wish to wed me then, and your feelings remain unchanged even now.”

“I was a fool to assume you’d have mellowed down after King Renly’s death,” he sneered, “but little did I know that you’d still be a stubborn old--”

“Ser Ronnet,” Jaime warned, unable to hear the wench being insulted in his presence. “If I were you, I’d talk to the lady with respect.”

“_ Lady? _” he spat, making Jaime the next target of his fiery eyes. “You call this lumbering creature a woman?”

Jaime could feel the blood pounding through his veins. “That’s enough--” 

Ronnet, however, true to his name, was crimson all over when sprang to his feet. “I made a mistake coming back to you,” he hissed, tossing Brienne a scornful look. “I should’ve known your taste in men. First you had your eyes set on Renly, and now you’ve been fucking--” he cut off, throwing Jaime another glare. “You’d rather be his whore than my wife--”

Blood rushing to his head at these words, Jaime rose to meet Connnington’s height. He knew nothing of what ran through his mind, rage the only emotion surging through him when he rammed a fist straight into the cunt’s jaw. Wide eyed with shock, Connington recoiled, but before he could get away or dodge, Jaime attacked him with another well-aimed blow, this time earning a torn lip as a satisfactory prize. “How dare you--” he tried to defend Brienne, but so blinded by fury he was, that coherent words simply wouldn’t come.

Wiping the blood dripping from his mouth, Ser Ronnet steadied himself. “You’re welcome to have her, Ser Jaime, as long as your lord father is made aware that it is because of you I’ve failed in my attempt to woo her,” he muttered angrily, lacking the courage to enter into a proper confrontation. 

Jaime was taken aback by his words. “What does my father have to do with any of this?”

“If it weren’t for your father’s persuasion I wouldn’t have come here,” Ser Ronnet admitted, his confession sending Jaime’s head spinning.

“Why the hell did my father send you after Brienne?” he managed to ask when he’d recovered enough to talk.

“Lord Tywin was the one who urged me to form an alliance with Tarth,” Connington went on regretfully, spilling out the real intention behind his proposal. “My uncle’s gathering the Golden company to take Griffin’s Roost. Lord Tywin assured me that he’d provide me the necessary support to defend my seat if I married the Maid of Tarth.” He ran his sleeve along his mouth to get rid of the blood and spittle. “Little did I know that I’d have to deal with his son here--”

“What did he expect from you in return?” Jaime wanted to know. His father never granted favours unless he stood to gain anything out of the deal.

“Nothing,” said Ronnet. “Isn’t marrying this woman payment enough for an army to defend my home?”

“Get away from my sight,” Jaime snarled, biting back the temptation to smack him again. “If you come anywhere near us again, I’ll make sure you’re left unfit to marry _ anyone _.”

Intimidated and glad to be rid of the wench, Connington stormed away as fast as he could, leaving Jaime alone with the wench, and it was only now that he noticed her reaction. Her face as washed out as a sheet again, she got up slowly. “Brienne, I’m sure there must be an explanation to this,” he said, hoping she’d listen to him. “I’ll find out, talk to my father--”

“I’d rather get back to the room,” she mumbled, taking care to avoid his eyes.

Jaime kicked his stool out of the way. “Let me accompany you.” 

“I’d prefer being alone for a while, Ser Jaime.” With neither a word to him after this, nor another look in his direction, she trudged along in the direction of the staircase.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cryptic letter from Tywin leads to a little something.

If only she’d never stumbled upon Jaime Lannister. If only they’d remained the enemies they'd started their journey as. If only he had continued to be the asshole she’d first met. If only she’d been able to keep him away from her heart. If only--

Things could’ve ended up so much simpler if only Jaime hadn’t stormed into her life!

Brienne buried her face in the pillow, seeking refuge in her bed despite it being the middle of the afternoon. Suddenly she felt tired and weak, the stinging sensation below her neck reminding her that she had not yet healed. Physical discomfort was something she could deal with, pushing it away with the help of Qyburn’s concoctions, but the maester could only offer a solution for the pain the blade had given her. What remedy could he possibly have for the other, more disturbing ache that had been bothering her?

She tossed and turned, her mind racing beyond her control, despite her efforts to restrain it. A load of possibilities they could’ve ended up with, but to her dismay, this was the way it had to turn out to be. He was a Lannister, a sworn adversary of the family she’d sworn to protect. He wasn’t supposed to forego his hand to save her honour, for gods’ sakes! He wasn’t supposed to leap in front of bears to protect her. He wasn’t allowed to barge into her chambers on a drunken night and catch her unawares, to bring alive the suppressed emotions within her with a kiss she could never forget for the rest of her life.

And she was supposed to despise him, not harbour feelings for him. Feelings that would never be reciprocated. If there was one man who would never look at a woman other than the one he’d pledged his life to, it was him. How many times had she heard him speak with glowing warmth about Cersei! How many times she’d had to listen to him lament about his days away from his sister! 

She was expected to get the hell out of King’s Landing as soon as she’d handed him over to his family, not pine for him, desperately in love. She was supposed to barter him for the Stark girls, not lie in some dingy old inn, slipping into recurring dreams of an imaginary life with him every damn night. What there should’ve been between them was merely a deal Lady Catelyn had struck with him, not the tangled complication it had turned out to be. 

Minutes might have gone by, but sleep evaded her, her mind running in circles, reflecting the conversation she’d stormed out of, the lack of logic behind the entire revelation puzzling her. Worse than her meeting with Red Ronnet was the reason behind his reluctant pursuit of her. Why the hell would Tywin Lannister want her to forge an alliance with the man who had unceremoniously turned her down years ago? 

Questions like these only presented her with a headache and more complications, the answers out of her reach, until at least, she happened to run into Jaime’s father. Shutting her eyes tight, she tried to focus on the quest that awaited her, and with visions of Jaime placing a red cloak upon her shoulders mingling with that of her laying her sword at Sansa’s feet, her eyelids began to get heavy, sleep slowly deciding to grace her with its presence.

+++++

A loud rap on the door brought her out of her slumber, and when she looked around, it was dark, evening, perhaps, or may be dusk. How long had she been asleep? The knock continued, but she didn’t budge, nor did she answer, a confrontation with Jaime the last thing she desired to engage in.

“Not now,” she shouted at last, hoping her blunt refusal might dissuade him.

“I’m afraid, my lady, I must disturb you,” Qyburn’s voice floated across from the other side of the door.

Pushing aside the slight pang of disappointment that it wasn’t Jaime who had called upon her, she let Qyburn in, who followed her to the bed. 

“That’s quite a rapid recovery, my lady,” he remarked, sounding impressed when he went about his routine examination of her injury. “Very soon we should be able to resume our journey.”

“How about tomorrow?” she suggested, wishing nothing more than to bring the task she'd been trusted with to a fruitful conclusion at the earliest. The less she saw of Jaime, the better, avoiding him the best option she had on hand.

Qyburn shook his head in firm denial. “A week at least,” he said, like a father disciplining his child. “While you’re fit enough to move around by yourself, I can’t risk you traveling before that.”

“I can’t stay here another week, it’s a terrible waste of time,” she cried, aghast at the idea of running into Jaime every single day, “and I’m sure Ser Jaime needs to get back to his family at the earliest.”

“Ser Jaime was the one who insisted that you be given all the care necessary,” Qyburn told her. “When you fell, my lady, he was driven to such an intense state of torment that it was a pain to witness the condition he’d reduced himself to.”

Guilt, perhaps, that she had taken a near-fatal blow to save his life. She could relate to that feeling only too well, having been through a similar state of mind when he’d lost his hand for her. “If he thinks he’s at fault, he’s mistaken--”

“I don’t think it’s just that, nor is it merely a concern for a fellow human,” Qyburn put her down gently, his keen eyes drilling into her mind to extract her thoughts. “He’s down at the tavern, my lady, lost and forlorn, drinking by himself,” revealed the elderly maester, his wrinkled forehead creasing in a frown. “I don’t know what bothers him, and I don’t mean to pry into your private matters, but if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it is that he cares about you.”

_ He does care for me. But that’s all there will ever be to it. _

“I know he does,” she quietly agreed, unable to refute his claim.

“He was a nervous wreck when he thought you’d die,” Qyburn went on, his revelation causing Brienne to stop and ponder about the extent of his kindness for her. “I could sense the pain and turmoil within him when he sat for hours by your side, staring into your face, hoping you’d miraculously open your eyes.”

Her heart did a little optimistic leap. Could it be that he too-- _ No, it can’t be, _she dismissed the tiny glimmer of positivity within her, reminding herself that no matter how hard Jaime cared for her, he could never fall in love with her. A man like him who spoke before thinking, and had never bothered thinking twice before firing her with insults would certainly have told her if there had been something in his mind.

“I’ll see you again tomorrow morning,” said the old man, his eyes telling her much more than that, urging her to talk to Jaime. “And we’re not going anywhere for a week, my lady.” With that stern reminder, he excused himself, leaving her at the mercy of her conflicting thoughts and feelings that threatened to scorch her from within. 

+++++

She saw him from a distance and froze where she stood, hoping she could pluck up the courage to face him after the unpleasantness that had transpired between them. Just as Qyburn had pointed out, he appeared to be as restless as she was. Perched on a barstool, he was staring into his drink, his finger tracing patterns on the dusty table.

Just as she was contemplating her next step, he raised his head to meet her eyes. “Lady Brienne.” He jumped to his feet as soon as he saw her, and rushed to her side. “Do you need any assistance?” he asked, offering his hand.

_ I can walk by myself, _she meant to say, but instead, a soft “Thank you,” was how she responded to him, and without knowing why, she accepted his help, though she could perfectly manage on her own.

“Ale?” he asked, as soon as she was seated on the stool opposite to his.

She shook her head. “I just came because--”

Before she could speak further, Jaime handed her a scroll, a grim shadow covering his features. “Letter from my father. Thought you ought to read it.”

She didn’t touch the piece of parchment. “I can’t read your letter.”

“Oh, go ahead,” he urged, pressing it into her palm.

A bit apprehensive about what she might encounter, she unfurled the letter and began reading. Skipping past the pleasantries, which were no more than a few terse words for his son, she came upon the matter of importance.

_ Don’t you worry about the expenses, _ Lord Tywin had written, _ I’ve written the innkeep and assured him he’ll be paid handsomely for the services rendered to you and your lady friend. Speaking of your lady friend, there’s something I wish to disclose to you, son. Something you wouldn’t like hearing-- _

She paused for a second, drawing in a deep breath as she braced herself for unknown horrors.

_ Lady Brienne, if you might recall, has been accused of murdering Renly Baratheon-- _

“I didn’t kill Renly,” she vehemently countered, looking up from the unfair accusation.

“I know,” Jaime assured her, “read on.”

_ The company you choose to keep isn’t something I have the right to question, Jaime, but it doesn’t do your reputation any good to mingle with types that only lend further strength to the derogatory title I’ve been hoping you’d shed some day. Furthermore, I’ve heard about some rumours - stories about you and the Maid of Tarth, tales that have driven folks around you to refer to her as the Kingslayer’s whore. I hope you’d pay heed to my word, son, and let go of her company sooner than later, for this is doing no good to either of you. _

_ The Kingslayer’s whore, _Brienne repeated in her head, and in spite of the sinking feeling within her, she forced herself to go on and read the rest of the wretched letter.

_ The Tarth girl is our enemy, Jaime, so I urge you to keep in mind the implications that might give rise to. To you. To our family. As a father, I must do what I can to avert potential disasters, which is why I’ve persuaded Ser Ronnet Connington to put forth a proposal of marriage to your friend. It pleases me to tell you that he has very graciously agreed, and Lord Selwyn too is quite pleased with the revival of the alliance which had unfortunately failed to take shape many years back -- _

Angry tears threatening to take control of her eyes, she could read no further. “Your father thinks there’s something going on between us, that you and I--” She couldn’t bring herself to mouth the filth the world had misunderstood their bond to be. She thrust the offensive letter back into his hand, Tywin’s accusation pricking her far deeper than the blade that had sliced through her.

“Rumours fly faster than ravens,” sighed Jaime, tossing the letter on the table. “I apologize on my father’s behalf--”

“While we’re enemies, no doubt, you know I’d die before I betray you,” she cut in, tears blurring her vision when her mind touched upon the second assumption Tywin had made about her. “My blood boils at every recollection of Lady Catelyn and her family’s horrible fate, but never once have I thought of turning my wrath on your family.”

“You know I don’t think of you that way, Brienne, as much as you know how deeply I trust you,” he jumped in to instantly pacify her, “but I can't help shake the feeling that there’s more to my father’s real intentions than this letter reveals. He wouldn’t merely send suitors after you unless he--”

“--thinks I’m sticking by your side to marry you,” she supplied, inferring it from Tywin’s unclear intention behind his seemingly benevolent act to find her father an heir.

Jaime shook his head in disagreement. “Even if he did think so, I don’t think he’d oppose our union, when all he’s been wanting since I came of age was to get me married to a suitable woman--”

“Suitable woman,” she repeated, all the piled up anguish within her coming to the fore. “I’m not one, am I? Not in his eyes, surely. The ugly wench rejected by all, unworthy of a husband or hearth, the bloodthirsty enemy who’s after your family to avenge her--”

A frown crossed his face. “Brienne--”

“Your father’s right, Ser Jaime,” she shouted, unable to keep her tone in check anymore, “I’m not like the pretty maidens he wishes you to marry. I’m in love with you, but that doesn’t mean I want you for myself,” she admitted, the words gushing out of her before she could hold them on a tight leash. “Days have gone by when I’ve been unable to stop thinking about you, but never once did I wish to separate you from your sister. All I want are the Stark girls in exchange--”

“Say that again,” he intervened, springing to his feet, his eyes bearing an odd shine to them.

She rose to meet his height. “The Stark girls--”

He refused to let her finish, his tone urgent and fervent when he pressed on. “Before that.”

“I never had the intention to separate you from your sister,” she repeated, the words a blunt reminder that he could never be hers.

“Before that,” he went again, his voice breathy with a touch of anxiety in it.

Overlooking the lump in her throat, she brought herself to say it again. “I love you.”

For several seconds he fixed her with a steady gaze, then, to her horror, his lips curved in a smile, perhaps mocking her audacity to fall for him, and this was too much for her to bear. “I made a mistake disclosing my feelings to you, Ser Jaime,” she cried, the tears this time, falling freely down her cheeks. “I should’ve anticipated that you’d think ill of me for this--”

“Brienne, let me speak--”

She had neither the strength nor the inclination to hear him out. “My feelings, I assure you, will remain buried within the depths of my heart, never to surface again, never to bother you ever. So rest assured, ser, and have a good night.” 

Having no idea of what next to say, and the thought of standing by and facing the aftermath of her confession far more appalling than she’d expected it to be, she dashed away, hoping sleep would find her before he did.

Barging into her room, she cursed herself for telling him all, apart from admonishing herself for hoping, for the single tiny second he'd looked at her when she'd confessed, that her fate might be sunnier than she’d expected it to be. But darkness was her destiny, and that was all she would get, for women like her had no right to dream about men like Jaime. The encounter had drained her, but her nerves unwilling to leave her in peace, she paced the room, wondering how she’d face him for the balance of their journey.

_ I won’t stay even a day, _ she resolved to herself. _ I’m going to take Sansa and-- _

“Wench!”

It was only when she spotted him standing at the entrance, did she realize that she’d forgotten to shut the door behind her.

“Go away,” she hissed, instantly turning her back to him.

But she heard the door slam shut, and she could sense him approaching her, every step narrowing the distance between them. “That’s not fair, you know,” he began, his voice softer than it had ever been.

“I’m tired,” she mumbled, hoping that might chase him away, “I want to sleep--”

“You can, but before that, finish the conversation.”

So close he was now to her, that she could feel his breath on her neck. “There’s nothing more to it,” she dismissed him, steadying her breaking voice as much as she could. “Your father--”

“--has no right to thrust his decisions on you,” he finished, touching her lightly on the shoulder.

She wheeled around to face him. “No one has any right to decide anything for me,” she snapped, her eyes once again burning under the stress of her emotions. “Not you, not your father, and not mine either. Come what may, I’m never going to marry Red Ronnet,” she declared, the prospect of wedding that piece of shit disgusting her beyond measure.

His shoulders relaxed, a smile beginning to show up on his face again. “Good, I'm glad you aren't--”

“And don’t _you_ hit me with your sarcasm again,” she attacked him, enraged that he’d go to the extent of chasing her upstairs with his taunts. “I'm tired of men ridiculing me all my life. I know I’m unworthy of marriage, so much that even shits like Ronnet treat me like dust on their boots, but that doesn’t mean anyone can--”

His smile faded as abruptly as it had appeared. “I’m not mocking you, Brienne,” he said earnestly, unblinking, as his eyes locked on to hers. “I was about to say that I’m glad you aren’t interested in this Ronnet fucking Connington. Your rejection of him is, without question, the best thing that has happened in days.”

His fingers gripped her tighter, and she suddenly felt out of breath, her mind cleared of all thoughts and her limbs frozen. “Why?” was all she could manage.

“Because I can’t stand the thought of you marrying him,” he said in a hushed tone, advancing another step to close the gap between them, “or any other cunt either of our fathers might decide to pick for you.”

His eyes, his touch, the bloody air surrounding him - all of it left her hopelessly entranced and smitten. “Why?” she asked again, resorting to the only word that seemed to cooperate with her.

He tilted his face close to hers, his voice coated with tenderness when he uttered the next words. “Because I love you, Lady Brienne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I haven't abandoned this :) Next chapter will be tentatively up by end of October.  
EDIT (01-Nov) : I’m running late by a few days, but I hope to get the next chapter done during the next week. Thank you for your patience :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reminded of her oath to Catelyn Stark, Brienne tries to push Jaime away, but not for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating bumped up to E for obvious reasons

_ I love you, Lady Brienne… _

It was all she’d wanted to hear, so what more could she ask for? 

She ached to dive into his arms, to pledge her mind, body and soul to him, to elope with him to someplace where no one could find them, to pretend the cruel world around them didn’t exist, but something held her back, binding her in restraints that were difficult to break free of. Believe him, she wanted to, but after a life full of criticism from men and women alike, his words were hard to digest. Want him, she so desperately did, but what if this was all a trick her weary mind was playing on her?

_ His words are merely a product of my wishful thinking, _she convinced herself, determined to look away from his eyes, wanting nothing more than to get herself back to Sansa and out of his damn life.

“Brienne,” he whispered, stroking her cheek when she was about to pull away, and something in the way he said her name drew her back to him. She couldn’t breathe when he brought his lips to hers, his eyes, the only sight she wanted to wake up to every morning, his honeyed voice the only sound she ever wanted to hear, his breath, the only thing she wanted to bathe in, his body, the only piece of clothing she wanted to wear. 

Whilst his fingers continued to kiss her face, he pressed his mouth to hers, and she shut her eyes, allowing herself to soak in this feeling of contentment. His lips were a feather on her shapeless pair, like dew drops caressing the delicate petals of a flower, sweet and tender, soft and gentle. It was her first real tryst with affection and carnal bliss, the outcome of a journey she’d embarked on with the man she loved dearly, far more than anything else in this world. 

_ I love you, Lady Brienne... _

The words kept circling inside her head, refusing to leave her alone, and she put in everything she could into the kiss, her lips an able match to his soon after she’d overcome her hesitation. Farther, she ventured, on a voyage to a world that had, until now, only resided in her head, preparing to set sail across seas she’d never dared venture into, ready to scale new heights she’d never dared ascend. 

With _ him_. For _ him_. 

How sorely mistaken she’d been all along! Renly, she’d thought it was, but little did she know that there would come another who would risk his life for her. Renly, she’d assumed, she’d secretly pine for all her life, and she’d accepted her future with silent resignation, wanting nothing more than sweet memories of him, and off late, revenge for his death. 

How was she to predict that her heart would, barely months later, find a new occupant? 

With thoughts of Renly, she’d expected to peacefully wither away when her time came to meet the Stranger, but was it her fault now for wanting to die in Jaime’s arms?

His mouth latched onto hers, his hand slid to her chest, waging a single-handed war against her laces, tugging at them, _ no _, tearing her shirt open, his fingers scorching her flesh when he pushed away the obstructing garment with an aggression she’d never seen in him before. His lust for her reigniting the need she’d harboured for long, she kissed him with abandon, and before she could stop herself, she found herself fumbling with his tunic, impatient to peel it off. She wanted to melt into him, to lose herself in his eyes, to surrender to the warmth of his touch, to give herself to him in every way a woman could. 

She yearned to meet his skin, to feel him inside her, for a maiden, no longer, she wished to be. She was his, not just for tonight, but for life, for--

_ I’m yours, my lady, _ her words to Lady Catelyn came back in a flash, forcing her eyes open, banishing the blissful visions she’d sunk deep into, _ I will shield your back and give my life for yours, if it comes to that. I swear it by the old gods and the new. _

“I can’t do this,” she cried out, distressed, reminded of the fate she’d chosen for herself, and jerked free of his embrace. _ My life isn’t mine, _she told her bleeding heart, hoping, one day, she’d get over him.

His bright green eyes shrunk in pain, confusion and doubt soon arriving to lend it their company. “I thought you--” he thumbed her chin, but she backed away, afraid, not of his touch, but of herself and her weak wall of will-power. “Apologies, my lady, I didn’t intend to thrust this upon you,” he said in a crushed voice that shattered her heart into a million pieces. He took care to keep her at an arm’s length as he spoke to her this time. “I thought you wanted this too, that you said you loved me, but maybe I misheard. My imagination, perhaps, it was--”

“I _ do _ love you,” she confirmed, casting his doubts away, “more than I ever loved Renly, but I can’t--”

He fixed her with a probing look. “Why, if I’m allowed to ask?”

“I pledged my life to Lady Catelyn,” she reminded him, rebuilding, brick by brick, the wall of emotions she had so flippantly torn down when she’d caved in to her temptations. “It isn’t mine to share with you, Ser Jaime. Sansa and Arya are my responsibility and they are what I’m going to dedicate my life to.” 

Lines of deep thought took shape on his handsome face. “They’re my responsibility too. It’s a promise we both made Catelyn Stark. We can do it together,” he said, taking a tentative step in her direction. “As soon as we reach King’s Landing, I want to marry you, wench, and after that--”

“You don’t understand,” she tried to explain, exasperated that he was acting naive. “Your father murdered the family I’m sworn to protect,” she pointed out, indicating that the Red wedding had only made matters worse for their situation. “He’s never going to let them go, not willingly, at least.”

Jaime straightened, his head held high with steely determination. “I’ll demand it of him. Nothing in this world will bring him more satisfaction than my decision to assume my position as his heir to Casterly Rock. He wants me married more than anything else. I’ll tell him that I wish to wed you, and in return, he has to return the Stark girls--”

To laugh, was not her intention, but a mirthless laugh her words had turned into when Red Ronnet’s face appeared in her head. “Your father conspired with mine to push me off to the last man I’d marry,” she reminded him. “You think he’d approve of his son marrying an ugly wench like me?”

“He has no choice but to approve,” he said with defiance, sounding like the overly confident knight she’d first met.

“What about your sister?” she blurted, before she could check her words, a fresh wave of doubt knocking her down. 

His face darkened, but only for a brief second, then brightening with hope again, he drew closer. “Give me a chance, wench, give _ us _a chance,” he persisted, a whiff of ale flooding her nostrils when he exhaled heavily.

_ Alcohol. _

It hit her like a punch to the gut. How could she have not seen it all along? What if his profession of love was just a figment of his weak drunken mind? What if, when he was back to senses tomorrow morning, he regretted bedding her? He’d not been with Cersei for months, not seen her pretty face for ages, so it was quite possible that this proximity to Brienne had stirred in him, desires he’d rather not harbour when sober, a need, which if he succumbed to, might fill him with remorse when he saw his sister again. 

What if, upon getting back to Cersei, his old feelings for her were rekindled?

“Promise me, Ser Jaime, that you’ll never propose our union again,” she put forth her request with a heavy heart. “What just happened between us--” she couldn’t bring herself to use the word _ kiss _“--will remain within these doors, never to reach another’s ears. You have my sincerest thanks, ser, for all you’ve done for me, and the one last favour I ask of you is to persuade your father to let the girls leave with me. That will bring us to the end of our journey.”

He stared blankly for a while, then murmured, “End of our journey, indeed,” in a lifeless, deflated tone. “Very well,” he conceded, a stony expression of resignation draining away all emotions off his face, “if that’s what you wish, my lady.”

With a short bow, he turned away, and once he’d left the room, Brienne found herself nursing a flood of tears she’d been trying hard to hold back all this while.

+++++ 

The week crawled by.

With Qyburn refusing to let her travel until she’d completely healed, each day seemed like a bottomless pit she was hurled into, nights slowly rolling into dawn, long endless hours following each emergence of the sun, with dusk, thankfully, bringing her closer to an escape from this despair she’d almost sunk into.

_ Almost. _

After that fateful night, Jaime had never broached the subject again, and though they continued to share a room and still slept on the same bed, he ensured to keep his distance, cautious to avoid contact with her of any kind - physical, verbal and emotional. To thaw things between them, she’d repeatedly tried to make empty talk, and every time he obliged her, it was always a polite response, his replies, precise and minimal - a far cry from the man who’d once so copiously let his words dominate every conversation he’d participated in. Careful, he’d become around her, watching every word he spoke in her presence, more so in the way he addressed her. _My lady, _he’d called her ever since, or _Lady Brienne, _never _wench, _or by her name alone. While _wench_ wasn’t an address she was particularly fond of, and derogatory, actually, she found it to be, it drove her insane to be deprived of the irritation the word never failed to evoke in her.

Lovers, they could never be. Soulmates and life partners, they weren’t destined to end up as, but enemies they no longer were, and after the rough bumpy road they’d survived, friends, they could always be. 

At least, that was what she thought.

Sadly, Jaime appeared to have a different opinion.

Like her, he seemed eager to get the hell out of here and back to his family. Like her, he was quite keen to restore purpose back into his life. Like her, he too, perhaps, wished her out of his life soon, but unlike her, he could barely stand her presence. He took to abandoning her company soon after dawn to busy himself in the village nearby, spending all day away from her and returning only for supper every night. Meal times were reduced to an insipid affair, a tedious hour he spent in her company, hesitant to meet her eyes, reluctant to engage in a more than a few customary words. An unavoidable, uncomfortable supper later, he’d linger in the tavern long after they’d finished eating, retiring to their room only after she’d fallen asleep.

_ Convenient, _ she wryly mused, poking the pieces of meat on her plate. _ This way he can keep communication with me to a bare minimum. _

_ Maybe, _ she pondered, the doubt lingering in her mind since its inception, haunting her night and day, _ he regrets getting close to me. _He’d probably accepted that night to be a mistake - a mistake, she’d thankfully nipped in the bud before it could take the form of an irreversible blunder.

Nevertheless, this was their last night here, her last chance to spend all the time left with him, and time it was again, for yet another punishment of a supper to come to an end.

“So,” she began, intending to salvage what remained of their last few minutes together.

He looked up from his plate, politely peering into her face, his newly cultivated courtesy vexing her more than his smug arrogance.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” she stated common knowledge, having nothing else to say.

With a terse, “Yes,” he returned to his food.

“You’ll be glad,” she dragged on, “to be back home, won’t you?”

Yet another forced _ yes _was the only response she got, his behaviour unusual for a man who was never this frugal with words.

“What about Sansa and Arya?” she asked, hoping this might get him to open up.

He set his spoon down beside his plate. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Her chest swamped with emotions she could no longer hold back, she jumped to her feet. “Why are you doing this?” she burst out, a huge lump in her throat obstructing her speech.

He followed suit, rising to meet her angry gaze. “What?”

“I think you know,” she snapped, tired of their week-long show of pretence.

He shook his head to deny her allegation. “I truly don’t.”

“Oh, for gods’ sake,” she cried, then left the table, rushing to her room, hoping for this day to end so they could be on their way back to normalcy tomorrow. He didn’t call after her, nor did he try to stop her, which only ascertained her suspicion that he wanted to cast her out of his life.

Fighting back tears, biting back her anguish, she shut herself in her room. Minutes passed with no knock on the door. _ As usual, only after I’m asleep, _ she muttered to the ceiling as soon as she angrily lay down, _ he can’t tolerate my-- _

The door creaked open, and in he strode, making his way to her side of the bed with an unbearably genial, “My lady.”

Her first instinct was to feign sleep, but her loudly pounding heart would betray her, calling out her lie at once. So up she was on her feet, ready to confront him, prepared, like their earlier days together, to dodge whatever he flung at her.

“You’re early,” she coldly welcomed him, infusing her words with all the bitterness she could fill them with, “I’m not asleep yet.”

The tips of his ears reddened. “I--uh--appear to have been doing that quite often these days,” he sheepishly admitted. “While it wasn’t intentional--”

“Of course you were intentionally being indifferent,” she seethed, attacking him with a week’s supply of pent-up frustration. “What else could it have meant?”

“I came to talk to you about the girls,” he calmly came to the point, refusing to fall prey to her fresh attack, “about what you said downstairs--”

“It _ wasn’t _ about the girls!” she lashed out again. 

“It has _ always _ been _ only _ about them, hasn’t it?” he retaliated, the pain in his voice stabbing her like a thousand tiny knives to her heart, the allegation hidden behind them uncovering the way she’d turned him down that night.

“You’re right,” she humbly agreed, her anger transforming into guilt. “Not entirely, though,” she added, deciding it was time to make amends for the days they’d lost.

For the first time in days, he stepped within a foot of her. “What do you mean, my lady?”

She gritted her teeth. _ My lady. _

“First of all,” she said between clenched teeth, struggling not to raise her voice, “stop overdoing this _ my lady _ and _ Lady Brienne. _Coming from you after all the insults you’ve put me through, it sounds forced and artificial.”

“You’re a highborn lady,” he justified, without batting an eyelid, “that’s how anyone would address you. I see nothing wrong with--”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” she growled, grabbing the front of his shirt in her irritation, “and stop this nonsense, this unnatural courtesy you’ve been punishing me with, this--” out of words, she paused awhile “--whatever you’ve been putting up all these days.” Jerking him closer, she let his breath wash over her, drawing comfort from his presence, the ache to submit herself to his arms pushing her another inch closer to accepting there was nothing wrong in wanting what she truly wanted.

His eyes dug into the farthest depths of hers. “I don’t understand, my lady,” he said hoarsely, his gaze then dropping to her hands that continued to hold his clothes hostage.

“Not _ my lady _,” she corrected him, her words a raspy whisper.

“You hate it when I call you _ wench _,” he complained, tilting his face close to hers.

She smiled, a shy smile of resignation, an open acceptance of her deepest desires. “I used to hate everything about you, but not anymore.”

He moved, his lips a hair’s breadth away from hers. “I don’t understand.”

They had kissed before, twice that too, but his mouth this dangerously close to hers struck her with nervousness she’d never felt before. “Stop tormenting me,” she pleaded, “I admit my vow has always been my priority, my sole purpose in life until--” she stopped, her throat suddenly dry and her knees weak.

“Until?” he prompted, his eyes blazing with questions.

“Until a week away from you woke me up to the realization that _other_ things matter as well.” Releasing his shirt to caress his neck, she carried on with her confession. “The whole of last week was a torture worse than Harrenhal,” she admitted. “It killed me when you stayed away from me. No matter how hard I try to keep you away, I can’t imagine a life without you, Jaime.” Using just his name felt intimate, brought her closer to him than she’d ever been before. “I am yours,” she wholeheartedly pledged herself to him, “if you’ll still have me, if that night wasn’t merely a drunken outburst of passion. If you still love me--”

All her questions, her nagging insecurities, and every one of the _ what ifs _that had been the cause of her sleepless nights vanished into nothingness when his mouth did the answering, engaging hers in the game they’d begun playing the first night he’d almost bedded her. To call it a mere kiss would do it gross injustice, for a wild dance of passion it turned out to be, a sweet song of union, a heated duel of tongues for control over her mouth - a power struggle she was only too happy to yield and let him take the lead. Full on her chapped and, now battered lips, he kept going, increasing the pressure, smothering her, biting her, sucking the hell out of her. She grabbed at him, clinging to him in desperation, her arms around his neck. Her hands, she no longer had control of, when she let them loose all over his hair, immersing herself in him, letting her problems, for the time being, slink away to the background.

“You thought I’d drunk-fuck you and abandon you the next morning,” he guessed correctly, leaving her mouth to turn his attention to her throat. “You think I’m that shallow, wench?”

“I am to blame,” she gasped, struggling to withstand the impact his relentless tongue and lips had on her. “I’m ugly and I thought you’d be repulsed by my body--”

His hand flew to her chest, the rest of her explanation a helpless yelp when he tugged at her nipple. “I’m not drunk tonight.” Dragging his hand down her front, he stopped when he reached her trousers. “I want you just as much as I’d wanted you that night, Brienne,” he said, and when he began fumbling at her waist, she hurried to assist him, to aid him in stripping away every barrier that stood between them. 

Their joint effort met success, and when he ripped the pants off her, she stood bare before him, her modesty, her maidenhood, the woman within her - _ all _ of her exposed to him, open to him, for him, entrusted to the trust she placed in him. He gazed at her for a long moment, his eyes darkening with lust and admiration when they settled on the patch of hair between her legs. He launched an attack on her shirt, and within seconds, the rest of their clothes followed her pants to the floor, and he stood before her like in that bath at Harrenhal, his masculinity, this time, out to greet her in all its erect glory.

“I’ve never done this before,” he murmured, and before she could seek an explanation, he pushed her on the bed, spreading her legs open as soon as she fell back onto the mattress. 

_ What are you doing, _ she meant to ask when he sank to his knees, burying his head between her legs, but a throaty sound was all that came out when his mouth began a wet trail up the inside of her thigh. She bit her lip, stifling an indecent growl when he kissed her mound, and when he slid his tongue in, she shook violently, grabbing his head with a feral cry she couldn’t control this time. His fingers gliding up her legs, he teased her sensitive skin before a finger made its way in to assist his mouth. His tongue settling within her warm more-than-just-moist folds, he began to devour her, his mouth doing things she’d have blushed merely imagining. He licked her, he sucked her, he thrust his tongue in and out of her burning core, taking her to levels of ecstasy she’d never known one could experience. His hand clamping one thigh in position and his stump wrapped around her other, he increased his pace until she could bear it no more, spasm after spasm rocking her entire body, the sudden spurt of pleasure overwhelming her so much that she had to cry out aloud.

“I’ve never done this before,” he rasped, panting when he emerged from beneath her. Slumping into bed beside her, he watched her with fondness she’d never seen before in his eyes. “Not to Cersei, not to anyone else. It’s you, Brienne,” he admitted, with such raw passion and love that she feared she might cry. “It will always be you.” 

Sliding onto her, he kissed her, first her lips, tasting of her, of what she meant to him, and then he moved down to her breasts, dedicating his attention to one taut nipple at a time, showing her what heaven truly felt like. With a gentleness she never thought a man could manage, he entered her, a little bit at a time, tearing through her maidenhead when he eventually encountered the obstruction. 

She felt strange at first, and it wasn’t the prick of pain she’d been forewarned about, but the foreign feeling within her, the fullness which was… _ him. _He stayed a while within, giving her time to adjust, seizing her lips again to kiss away her discomfort.

“Jaime,” she sighed into his mouth, when he moved his hips, her unease rapidly evolving into a jolt of pleasure and a yearning for more. 

Her fingers clawing at his back, she pulled him to her chest, and he dug deeper into her, then drew away, his retreat taking her by surprise. Before she could come to terms with this unknown, yet exhilarating experience, he thrust again, this time harder than before, dragging her to the edge before letting go again. He kept slamming into her, back and forth, faster and faster, his cock hitting her with more force each time, and she met him mid-way, touch for touch, move for move, thrust for thrust and kiss for kiss until she was left blinded and reeling, her body a storm-wrecked mess of flesh and bones when she was finally thrown off the cliff she’d been wandering along the edge of. 

With a loud feral grunt and a rough plunge into her, he followed her into the deep chasm. They lay there, him on her, his sweaty body like a second skin to her, wrapped around her as though he’d always been a part of her.

“Yours,” he said softly, covering her mouth with his. “I will always be yours, wench.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next : Confrontation with Tywin.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some flirting, a proposal, a negotiation and... a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, better late than never :)

“Let me help,” Jaime offered, rushing to her side. 

Shielding her eyes from the blinding sun, Brienne gazed upon him with a smile as he approached, and never before had he seen her like this, happy and radiant when she bashfully resisted, “I can mount a horse on my own, you know.”

Nudging his face to hers, he dropped his voice to a seductive whisper. “I never said you can’t.” Their escorts were yet to arrive. Taking advantage of their solitude, he dragged his hand down her arm, his fingers gently kissing her, his lips itching to get to hers, to resume the magic they had conjured together last night. “A man ought to be there for the woman he loves, don't you think?”

“Jaime,” she half-heartedly objected, her palm on his chest, her fingers helplessly scraping the front of his shirt and her lips twitching furiously as his mouth neared them. “Not here,” she pleaded, her luminous eyes screaming the exact opposite. “They’ll be here any moment.”

The way his name fell off her lips fueled the flames of desire within him. “Well, they aren’t here now.” He rubbed his lips against hers. She pulled in a sharp breath but did nothing to drive him away. He squeezed her hand. She didn’t resist, her chest heaving instead, her beautiful eyes seizing his in anticipation. “Besides, it’s just a few more hours. As soon as we reach King’s Landing, I’m going to speak to my father and--”

“So tis’ true,” came a mocking drawl from behind them. Jaime immediately drew away and turned around to face one of the men who had taunted Brienne earlier. “You can’t keep your hands off each other. The Kingslayer and his w--”

“--wife,” Jaime finished for him. “And it’s my future wife you’re talking about,” he warned the man, attacking his eyes with the most threatening glare he could manage. “The Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock. So watch what you speak about her unless--”

“That’s enough,” Steelshanks called out, glaring at his man as he strode towards them. “Stop this nonsense and get on your horse.”

Their unpleasant intruder wouldn’t dare disobey his boss, so thankfully, that was the end of it. While he trudged along to one corner, one by one the rest of Steelshanks’ men trickled into the stables and began to get their horses ready.

Without further incident they resumed their journey and when they were ahead and out of earshot of their company, Brienne asked, “What was that you told him earlier?” shooting him an inquiring look.

Her abrupt question left him searching for a context. “About what?”

“You just announced to him that I’m going to be your wife.” She slowed down slightly so she could pay more attention to him and the conversation. “Why--”

Jaime threw her a disarming smile. “Are you miffed that I didn’t ask you properly?”

Her features softened, bringing back the adorable bashfulness he found so alluring. “No, it’s not that--” 

He brought his steed to a halt and jumped off. Surprised, she followed suit. “Jaime, what’s wrong--”

She fell silent when he took her hand. “Will you marry me, my lady?” he asked her like a lord and a lover should. While he was nearly sure of her answer, he waited with bated breath for her to speak, searching her clear eyes for her reply.

“You know I will,” she gave her gentle consent, a pale blush blossoming all over her face and neck, “but--”

His lips skimmed over her knuckles. “You can’t ward me off with a _ but _,” he whispered, “buts are the beginning of conflicts and--”

“Your father--”

“I’ll deal with him.”

“But he despises me,” she frantically pointed out, taking him back to the ill-fated letter and the night he had read out its nasty contents to her. “He wants me to wed Red Ronnet. He’ll never consent to our union--”

Jaime silenced her agitation with a hard passionate kiss, full on her mouth. And at once she relaxed, her arms going around his neck, her pliant lips moving and parting under his. She let herself be held by him, responding with a scorching need as she invited him to the sweetness of her tongue, driving him insane with this arousing reminder of the dream-like time they’d had last night.

He would’ve kept going, for nothing was more irresistible than the taste of her, but the sound of hooves at a distance forced him to reluctantly let go of her with a firm, “You’re not marrying Cunnington--”

“--Connington,” she corrected, suppressing what he took to be a girlish giggle.

“Conningon, Cunnington… How does it matter? He’s just another cunt who wishes for your hand because of your name.” When she still looked doubtful, he reaffirmed, “It is my responsibility to convince my father, do you understand?” and when she nodded, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

Her eyes were moist when she replied, “I do.”

“Then, my lady, ease your mind and let me do the rest.”

Before their travel companions could catch up with them, they were both back on their horses and riding into the sunny morning. Nothing, Jaime now knew, would bring him more happiness than making her his forever; there was nothing else he looked forward to with anxiety and bated breath, not even his long-awaited reunion with his beloved sister. 

While he would always love Cersei, Brienne was his love.

For the rest of the journey, they were absorbed in each other’s company, a careful distance from the others, away from their curious eyes, and Jaime utilised this time to make small talk with her. Never having sought the chance to court a woman in his younger days, he seized the opportunity this time, pelting her with questions about herself, her family, her likes and dislikes, preferences when it came to men, the dreams she had dreamt in her youth and her maiden fantasies. Some, she answered, at once, while others, she evaded, thoughts unknown to him, bringing a warm smile to her lips and a shine to her eyes, making her blush like a pretty rose.

“Tell me, my lady,” he kept insisting, enjoying her flushed cheeks when she squirmed, too shy to reveal how she’d like their wedding night to unfold. “I’m no longer a stranger to you, but the man who will soon be your husband. We have no secrets, so why such inhibitions--”

He stopped talking when the smile was off her lips.

“We’ve reached,” she said, steering him away from the playfulness they’d been engaging in, her eyes flicking back and forth between him and the towering city gates ahead of them.

_ Home, _thought Jaime, everything he had undergone in the past year or so flashing before him, a mark left on him, never to be erased nor forgotten. Dismounting his horse, he made his way in. Slow, tentative steps, he took, eager, yet apprehensive to be reunited with the people he loved. So immersed in himself he was, that he failed to notice where he was going and collided headlong into someone. 

“Watch where you’re going, country boy,” his victim shouted in an irate voice, and after shooting him an angry glare, the man went his way, clearly unaware of who he had bumped into.

_ Country boy. _

Jaime stood there, staring at the ground as he mulled over the two words, a dull feeling spreading across his chest as he wondered if he would ever be able to regain his identity, his lost glory and the life he’d led prior to his maiming. He could picture his father mocking his disability, giving him a piece of his mind, as usual, about placing his whims above his responsibilities, reminding him at every available chance that his rightful place was at Casterly Rock--

He looked up, his mind immediately jumping to Brienne as a plan took birth in his head. He knew his father well, his strengths and weaknesses, and he knew now, what to do. This was it; the only way he could make Brienne his wife _ and _ ensure Sansa remained safe.

“What’s wrong?” Brienne asked, bringing him out of the intricate web his brain had begun to weave. “You look worried.”

“I was just thinking how to explain _ you _ to my father,” he said, falling in line with her, hoping he could pull this through.

Her face fell. “He doesn’t think much of me.”

Jaime let his fingertips caress hers. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks.”

“But--”

“Trust me, wench.”

His reassurance was good enough to put an end to her insecurity and in they went, not exactly hand-in-hand, yet matching step, a tingle of anticipation running down his spine every time his fingers met hers. On the one hand, given the pathetic and pitiful condition he was in, sneaking in unrecognized was a boon rather than the insult he’d initially taken it to be, but on the other, the stranger’s remark left him worried. How the hell was he going to convince the guards of his identity?

“Oye,” shouted one of the keepers, stopping him when he was about to enter the Red Keep. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, glancing down at Jaime’s bandaged stump.

“Home,” Jaime defiantly replied, attacking the man with a piercing stare. Bemused, the guard narrowed his brows. “I’m Jaime Lannister,” he announced, deciding to waste no more time in such preliminaries. “Let me in or face my father’s ire.”

The man scoffed, his eyes returning to Jaime’s missing limb, but when Jaime barked, “Now,” in a commanding voice, he mellowed down, the authoritative arrogance on his face giving way to a wide-eyed look of disbelief. “Ser--Ser Jaime?” he stammered, his eyeballs popping out of their sockets.

“Aye, it is him,” Steelshanks grunted, pushing himself to the head of the group. “Lord Bolton has charged me with getting him back to his father, and I’m not going anywhere until I safely see him through.”

The gold cloaks immediately granted them entry, and as soon as they were a little way in, Tyrion came rushing to greet them. “Jaime!” he cried, his face brightening with joy as he approached his brother. Before he could answer, Tyrion turned to Brienne, enthusiastically rubbing his hands together and exclaiming, “So this is Lady Brienne of Tarth!” He planted a courteous kiss on her knuckles. “I’m Tyrion Lannister, my lady,” he beamed, “and it’s a pleasure to finally get to meet you.”

“I’m pleased to meet you too, Lord Tyrion,” Brienne replied, giving him a polite nod in return.

“Thank you for bringing my brother home, Lady Brienne.”

Brienne flushed. “It was he, my lord, who risked his life more than once for me--”

“You did too,” Jaime jumped in to remind her. “You recklessly put yourself in danger to protect me from those assassins. Have you forgotten?” The vision of her collapsing into his arms, battered and broken and nearly dead would be stuck in his memory for ages to come, visiting him frequently in his nightmares long after the threat had passed and the wench was well and out of peril.

Brienne didn’t reply, but Tyrion was now looking at them both with intrigue and questions in his shrewd eyes, and unwilling to let his brother hit her with unnecessary embarrassment in the presence of their escorts who were lurking around, waiting for them, Jaime decided to hurriedly switch the conversation to something more suitable for public consumption. “Tyrion, we have guests and I need--”

“--suitable lodgings for them,” guessed his brother, as if he’d read his mind. “Escort them to the guest chambers,” he instructed a man who had accompanied him.

While the men marched ahead, Brienne refused to budge, awkwardly rubbing her palm against her pants. “Go on, my lady,” Jaime urged encouragingly, “you need some rest after the exertion you’ve been through.”

She considered his suggestion for a moment, then with a slight nod, followed Steelshanks and his men.

“Sooo,” Tyrion began, his keen eyes and all his attention on Jaime as soon their companions were out of sight, “you and the Maid of Tarth, huh?” he went on, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I did hear some rumours, but never imagined it would escalate to this level.”

“We’d better get indoors,” Jaime muttered under his breath, wanting to confine this discussion to the privacy of closed chambers. The last thing he wanted was unnecessary gossip. He couldn’t bear the thought of mud being slung on Brienne’s character as a result of careless loose talk. When he began heading off in the direction of the white tower, Tyrion followed.

“Tell me _ everything _,” he eagerly pressed, “and by everything I mean--”

Jaime came to a halt. “I love her, do you understand?” he snapped, daring his brother to mock him. And when Tyrion’s eyes went round with disbelief, he wished to leave no room for doubt. “Yes, I’m in love with her. I intend to marry her. And I hope this much is good enough to satiate your curiosity.”

To his surprise, his brother smiled, the sincerity in it startling him more than the warmth in his tone when he said, “I’m happy for you, Jaime.” When Jaime continued to gape at him, open-mouthed, Tyrion repeated, “I truly am. Why don’t you join Sansa and me for tea and we can talk about this at length--”

Jaime wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. “You and Sansa?”

A smile again, came to his lips, not one of contentment or happiness this time, but guilt and a sadness he’d kept hidden all this time. “Haven’t you heard the news, brother?” he said, his tone losing its initial enthusiasm. “Sansa Stark is now Sansa Lannister, wed to me against her wishes, yet another innocent victim of our father’s devious plan in his quest for power and supreme authority.”

+++++

“I can’t believe Cersei went to that extent,” Jaime expressed his displeasure. “No wonder the poor girl despises anyone named Lannister.” After hearing the tales of the torture Sansa had to endure at the hands of his family, Jaime wondered if she would trust him with the rest of the plan.

“You _ can’t believe _ Cersei was being vengeful and selfish?” Tyrion asked, frowning. “Gods, brother! You really have been blinded by your love for her.”

Jaime set down his cup. “You’re right,” he mused, thoughtfully staring down the steaming liquid in the cup. “So enamoured by her, I was, that I let go of everything else, of what I truly want, my duties towards our house--”

“Ahh,” Tyrion teased. “My brother finally wants to marry and lead a normal life like any other nobleman and heir,” he gleefully declared. “I’m glad you’ve found yourself a worthy match, someone who loves you as much as you love her, ready to lay down her life for you--”

“Father will not agree,” Jaime confessed his fear, something he didn’t want to do in front of Brienne. “He stooped to the extent of sending Ronnet Connington after Brienne in the hope that their marriage would squash the rumours and keep her away from me.”

“Father wants nothing more than for you to marry suitably and line up his heirs in front of him,” Tyrion argued. “Why would he object if you walked up to him and handed him his wish on a bejeweled platter?”

Jaime let out a long sigh. Now that Sansa was family, it was going to be difficult explaining this to his brother. “Father thinks Brienne is a threat to us,” he said, echoing the unpleasant words in the letter. “He’s worried she might avenge the murdered Starks and--” he inhaled deeply before surmising, this bit, his own doubt and not his father’s conclusion “--lead Sansa out of here to the safety of her brother’s sheltering arms.”

Tyrion slowly shook his head. “The poor girl is too terrified to even ask the cooks to prepare her favourite meals. I don't think she's going to just run away with--”

“Actually,” Jaime uncomfortably interrupted him, “Brienne--um--we, she and I--” He huffed a breath. “We made a promise to Lady Catelyn when I was imprisoned at Riverrun. I intend to keep that promise.”

Tyrion’s brows flew up into his hair. “What promise?”

“That we would see to it that Sansa and Arya are safely handed back to their family.”

His revelation met stunned silence which Jaime didn’t know what to make of. Would his brother support him? Would he be a hindrance to his plan? Would he-- Jaime stopped at that, the reason behind his brother’s unnatural quiet and lack of a witty response only now hitting him. Had Tyrion fallen for his young wife?

Asking would be the best way to ascertain his assumption. “Tyrion--”

His brother ran a finger along the handle of his cup. “You must help her,” he said, looking up at him. “Sansa hasn’t done anything to live with this ordeal forever. She deserves better than me, someone young and whole.”

So his brother had, indeed, softened towards her. Even if he wasn’t in love yet, he was bordering around it, tethered to the threshold of it. If, however, whatever was cooking in Jaime’s head came to a fruitful execution, there would be room for Tyrion and Sansa to have a life together. Only, of course, if he wished it, and she wanted it too.

“I have an idea,” he started, and slowly began telling him how he would want to attack their father's crafty mind. 

Barely hearing him out, Tyrion began to dismiss him at first, but when Jaime delved deeper, going on to unfurl the entirety of it, he talked less and listened more, the resounding thump of his fist on the table, a firm stamp of his approval and support.

“Talk to Sansa and convince her,” were Jaime’s parting words as he took leave of his brother.

Tyrion nodded. “I’m sure she’ll agree. And you do your best with father.”

_ I hope so, _Jaime motivated himself under his breath as he made his way to the Tower of the Hand. The farther he left Tyrion and his brotherly support behind, the lower his confidence sank, anxiety beginning to grip his chest, filling his head with the worst possible outcomes of his impending meeting. There was always a possibility he could fail, for his father had, time and again, proved himself to be a step ahead of his children, using them as pawns and manipulating them for his political gains. 

But unless he risked a negotiation attempt, he’d never know.

He paused at his father’s door and once his lungs were full of a fresh burst of air, he held his head high and knocked.

“Enter,” called Tywin from the other side, and the moment Jaime stepped inside, he rose to his feet, a rare gesture of--kindness, maybe? “My son,” he greeted him with genuine affection in his eyes, but when his gaze fell to the hand that no more was, a flicker of disappointment and what could be construed as shame flashed across his aged lines. “So you did manage to return--” he paused to take a proper look at the stump “--in _ almost _ one piece,” he remarked without bothering to keep out the sour tinge in his voice.

“For a man stranded alone in the clutches of your sworn enemies, I did reasonably well, keeping away from death,” Jaime replied, unable to contain the bitterness within him. This was just the beginning, and if this was how the entire conversation was going to be, his chances of coaxing his father were next to nought.

His father walked around the table to face him. “Have you come here after all these months to argue with me, boy?” His frown lines deepened. “Has the Tarth girl’s resentment towards us rubbed off on you and turned you against your own kin?”

“I’ve come here to talk to you about her.”

His father’s sharp green eyes stabbed him like a flaming dagger. “I heard she turned down the alliance her father and I had so meticulously chosen for her.”

Jaime tried not to shake with rage when he remembered Red Ronnet insulting Brienne. “You did it to keep her away from me and our family assuming she’s out to destroy us. And she did the right thing. That man is no knight, for he has nothing but taunts for her--”

“Then she must learn to live with such critical remarks,” bellowed Tywin, visibly displeased with Jaime’s open defense of their so-called enemy. “With looks such as hers, she must consider herself blessed for such a proposal to come her way--”

“Don’t you mock her!” Jaime growled, gritting his teeth, his hand shivering with the uncontrollable rage that shook him from inside. Making a conscious effort to tone down his rising voice to a respectable level, he resorted to a more subdued, “Without her, I wouldn’t be standing before you, father.”

“Without her, Renly Baratheon would still be alive and you’d still have a hand,” Tywin spat, his eyes glowing with rage. “Without her, you’d still be worthy of your title.” He paused to take in an angry breath, his voice rising further when he said, “Without her, you’d still be fit enough to wield your sword and protect the king--”

“She didn’t kill Renly!” Jaime lashed out, the repeated accusation grating his nerves. “Without her, I might have killed myself in despair. She egged me on, motivated me to stay alive.”

“What good is such a life?” roared his father, still livid. “A life of worthlessness is worth none at all.”

“Even if it means furthering your line?” Jaime quietly asked, gulping down the insult. Losing his temper was easy, but it would be up to no good. Antagonizing his father would only set him back several steps instead of taking him closer to his goal.

“Stop this pointless discussion and get back to--” his father continued to scold him, but paused abruptly, his eyes growing to double their size when he realized what he’d heard. “_Furthering my line? _ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I wish to marry and assume my rightful position as your son and heir,” Jaime explained, his toes numb with anxiety and anticipation.

His father didn’t stop staring at him. “You want to give up the Kingsguard?”

“I suppose that goes without saying.” This was something he’d never yet lent a thought to, and it hit him now with a fresh wave of insecurity. Kingsguard vows were for life, death being the only means of freedom from them. Without considering this obvious complication, he’d pledged himself to Brienne, made huge plans to rescue Sansa from the marital prison she was trapped in.

“You’re willing to go to Casterly Rock?” asked his father, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the table, “away from Cersei.”

Jaime shrugged. “If that’s where you want me, then yes.”

“Why?” His father’s hawk-like gaze was beginning to make him squirm. “Why this sudden change of mind?”

“Because I’ve finally met the woman I wish to spend the rest of my life with,” Jaime answered, deciding to be totally honest.

Tywin straightened, abandoning his perch on the table. “So the rumours aren’t really baseless!” he exclaimed, screwing his eyes in disgust. “You and that Tarth girl--”

“I love her, father,” Jaime bared his heart before he could demean Brienne by calling her a whore. “It is she I will marry or none at all.”

“Are you threatening me, son?” his father demanded, his tone low-pitched, yet chillingly menacing. “Or do you take me for a fool?”

Jaime stood straight, head high and chin up, refusing to be intimidated. “Neither. I’m trying to reason with you.”

“She’s our enemy,” argued his father, “a wolf draped in a lion’s skin to enter our lair and slaughter--”

“I already wrote to you that she has no such intentions,” Jaime immediately shielded her, worried his father might go to the worst possible extent in his wrath. “Even after what you’ve done to her liege lady and her family.” Softening his voice to a polite plea, for nothing else would work with his powerful and influential father, he said, “Think about it. If she wants me dead, why would she take the pain to keep me alive?”

“To use you as a means to get Sansa out of here. I have reasons to believe that’s what she’s here for,” his father brought up the trickier part of the conversation, “to rescue the girl and take her back to her brother up North. This is another reason I wanted her out of your sight and away from here.”

“She won’t be peaceful until she’s made sure Sansa is safe,” Jaime sighed in agreement, placing all his faith in the next half of his plan. “So yes--”

“Yet you want her? What are you?” Tywin asked, his tone dry with sarcasm. “A traitor to your own house? Or a traitor to the crown? Or both, perhaps?”

“Neither,” said Jaime, a one-man army against his rapidly diminishing patience and composure. “I’m putting forth a proposal you will have no reason to refuse.”

“You’re telling me to send Sansa back to Winterfell, my only means to gain a stronghold over the North--”

“It isn’t as bad as it sounds. Think about it.” Jaime fervently hoped his father would listen to the entire thing and find this favourable. “All of Ned Stark’s sons are dead, which makes Sansa his eldest surviving child and heir. Winterfell is hers, and by marriage, Tyrion’s.”

Tywin scoffed. “You think I don’t know that?”

“You do,” Jaime slowly agreed. “But have you spared a thought to whatever is going on there right now?”

Tywin nodded impatiently. “Roose Bolton has plans to march upon the Ironborns and claim the castle for his--”

“And once he secures it, you expect him to just hand it over to you?” His father’s clouded expression told Jaime that this was unfolding exactly the way he’d hoped it would.

“Of course,” his father said, his steadily deep voice refusing to surrender to the turbulence in his eyes. “He’s been loyal to me. At my behest, he turned against Robb Stark--”

“Who is to say he won’t turn against you at _ someone else’s _ behest?” Jaime kept up his verbal attack, another step closer to crushing his father’s stubborn determination. “How do you know he won’t murder you and Joffrey and the rest of us at _ someone else’s _ wedding? Can you vouch for him? Is the man whose men treated me worse than a beggar more trustworthy than an innocent, principled woman who’s here for nothing but the safety of the one she’s sworn to protect?”

“So you’re just asking me to do away with the alliance I had painstakingly forged?”

“No,” said Jaime, going on to clearly explain himself. “Sansa stays married to Tyrion. You will send them both back to Winterfell, away from Cersei who has made life hell for the girl.”

Tywin let out a mirthless laugh again. “You expect Roose Bolton to welcome them with open arms?”

“That’s where your help is of paramount significance, father,” Jaime continued, getting to the most critical part. “We try to negotiate with him, and should our words fall into deaf ears, we take Winterfell by force.”

This time his father had nothing but silence and a shocked look to answer him with.

“We have an army large enough to take them down,” Jaime confidently declared.

“What if I refuse?” Tywin walked over to him until his towering form was just about two feet away from him. “What if I throw this Tarth girl into the dungeons and--”

“Then I swear I’m never going to marry.” Jaime bit the inside of his cheek, rage, mounting helplessness and fear that his plan might fail, threatening to overpower his logic. “Sansa will lie here languishing in her sorrow, and until she wholeheartedly accepts Tyrion, I assure you he won’t lay even a finger on her, let alone compel her to bear his children.” Before his father could bark out his objection again, he continued, “You will have no heirs, neither from Tyrion nor me. You tend to lose Winterfell, and after us, Casterly Rock as well. But--” he paused, carefully observing his father’s mounting confusion “--if you do as I suggest, everything works to your advantage.”

His father’s mouth twisted into a reluctant, grudging smile. “You really are threatening me. But you’re turning out to be pretty good at it.”

“I’m not. I’m a Lannister too. I’m trying to do the best I can for our family.”

After studying him intently for a few tense seconds, Tywin slowly nodded his consent. “Very well, have it your way. I'll have a word with the king to get you relieved from your Kingsguard duties.” 

Jaime gave him a guarded smile. “You won’t be disappointed.” His momentary elation, however, slipped away when he pictured Cersei’s reaction. His decision would be an unpleasant shock to her, and what if she decided to harm Brienne--

“Don’t worry about Cersei,” said his father, accurately gauging his fears. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t intervene in your life.”

Jaime closed his eyes, allowing relief to wash over him.

Tywin retreated to his desk, but continued to keenly scrutinize him. “You really do love her very much, don’t you? I wonder what charm someone this ordinary could’ve unleashed upon a man who could’ve had any woman he wanted.”

“It’s rather simple, father,” Jaime said dreamily, making his way to the door. “She’s the only one who saw the man trapped behind the _ Kingslayer _.”

+++++

Brienne wriggled into his arms to make herself comfortable. “We ride the day after?”

“Hmm,” Jaime hummed, combing his fingers through her damp hair.

“After we’ve taken Winterfell, what about Lady Sansa and your brother?” she asked, large blue eyes brimming with concern as she glanced up at him.

He pulled her closer, losing himself in the softness and comforting weight of her smooth, sweaty body. “Whether they want to honour their bond or get it annulled, only time will tell, my lady.”

He could feel her relax again, her warm breath rustling the hair on his chest. “Lord Tyrion, I’ve heard, has treated her with kindness and respect.”

“He has,” Jaime said, recalling the tenderness in his brother’s eyes at the mere mention of his wife. “And I do hope they have a good life, together or apart, whichever is best for them both.”

She ran her fingers down his ribs, inducing in him, a fresh bout of longing and arousal. “When I first met you, I never imagined our journey to end with our wedding night.”

“Of course,” Jaime agreed with a chuckle. “You wanted to kill me. If eyes were weapons, your glare would’ve cut me down in that prison.” 

“You were no less,” she complained, before pulling a face and going, “_Is that a woman? _” mimicking his condescending tone.

Jaime chuckled at her near-perfect impersonation of him. “Oh, What an idiot I was then!” Wrapping his arms tightly around her, he asked, “So, have you decided on a name for the sword, wife?” more seriously, this time.

She looked up into his face, her chin resting on his chest, her hand riding up his neck. “Oathkeeper.”

His heart swelled as he bent to kiss her. “Such a great honour you want to bestow upon me?”

“A priceless gift like this deserves to be no less than the reflection of the man it was forged for,” she replied, gently nipping at his lip. “A man of honour, you always were, Jaime--”

“Not always.” He flipped her over and pinned her down to the bed. “Not until a certain wench decided to barge into my life one fateful night and show me what I was truly meant for,” he said, before smothering her with a crushing kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where I will leave you all - on a happy note. What happens next is, of course, left to your interpretation.  
Thank you so much for sticking with me through this journey and hope you've enjoyed it as much as I did!


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